


a melancholy weekend in december, or, when the end of us wasn't the end

by loseyoutoloveme



Category: NCT (Band)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Ballet, Alternate Universe - College/University, Alternate Universe - High School, Angst, Ballet, F/M, Family, Family Drama, Friends to Lovers, Infidelity, Piano, Religion, Slow Burn, i will be adding more tags as i think of them lol im so bad at this, if you know me this is going to be catastrophic in how slow burn it is, so be aware, this is going to touch on
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-01-23
Updated: 2021-03-13
Packaged: 2021-03-16 00:33:57
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 9
Words: 106,904
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28947483
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/loseyoutoloveme/pseuds/loseyoutoloveme
Summary: This past weekend, Taeyong Lee's wife, who we learned from our sources is a fellow ballet dancer he married in July, was seen dining in the city with a mystery man. Rumor has it that since their nuptials, the couple has spent all of their time at the Lee estate with their son. So, to see her out and about with someone else was of notable interest.If you have a tip on this man’s identity or have any details about what occurred during this weekend rendezvous, contact sh.o@nypost.com.
Relationships: Jung Yoonoh | Jaehyun/Reader, Lee Taeyong/Reader
Comments: 115
Kudos: 60





	1. echappé: to escape

**Author's Note:**

> hello, and welcome to THE new story!
> 
> i simply couldn't stay away for too long, i was itching to get the first installation of this new narrative out for the adoring fans lol. i'm so excited for everyone to start this journey with me! please enjoy and don't skip over the end notes for a more in depth preview of what you can expect from this :)

**-PROLOGUE-**

> [7:56 pm] **unsaved number:** this weekend…  
>  [7:56 pm] **unsaved number:** it meant a lot to me  
>  [7:56 pm] **unsaved number:** thanks.

  
You’re fairly sure that set of messages shouldn’t make your heart crunch into a million shitty, happy pieces, but it does all the same.

“Before we go in, do you need a moment?”

You look up from your illuminated phone and a swirl of snowflakes goes right into your eyes, partially obscuring your view of your employee. He hasn’t opened the door yet, because you’re both stopped on the front step to the estate, and you’re wondering why he hasn’t. And why he asked that question. It’s not like you couldn’t multitask, return to your room and read your phone at the same time, take off your jacket and hope that your tenderly healed heart isn't out for the world to see.

“Whatever for, Lucas?” you ask in return, trying to glean the hidden meaning out of him.

The tall man fidgets with the blonde fringe visible under his beanie, a slight nervous gesture that is unlike his practiced ease. His voice goes quiet to follow, “Well, you've been away this weekend, and you’ve kept your phone off this whole time.”

“A purposeful decision that was agreed upon,” you remind him, though you suppose you didn’t really give anyone an option to deny your request.

You’d turned the device off before boarding the train to New York and returned it to life on only minutes ago, out of pure curiosity that there might be a specific message or two waiting for you. Turns out, there were three messages waiting, they'd been waiting since before you'd even gotten on the train. And again, you probably shouldn’t be feeling like this.

“I didn’t comment because I disagree, I commented because _I’ve_ kept my phone on this whole weekend,” Lucas says, fully nervous this time. That means somewhere in the nest of swiped away notifications is one you would not like to see, and you have at least two hundred and thirty four imagined possibilities for what it could be. Literally all of them bad, too.

Ignorance is bliss in this scenario, and you tell him that, “I’d rather not know. Let me take it.”

You have your hand on the golden door ring, prepared to heft your weight and open the door, but Lucas’s hand over yours stops the motion. He questions you again, “Are you sure?”

Now he’s making _you_ nervous, and you really don’t have time to deal with that right now. You don’t offer up a response, and Lucas will know it’s because you don’t have leeway to change your mind. Whatever’s happened has happened, and there’s nothing you can do to change it. He opens the door for you, and lets you in first.

“Room first then?” he asks as he takes your snow-covered jacket, then slips a final hint of friendship in before it’s back to work, “or would you like a hot chocolate detour?”

“Room f—,”

“y/n.”

You and Lucas freeze, like the precipitous winter storm, in the middle of the foyer at the proper call of your name. You want to hide behind his broad form, but it’d been your name that echoed out into the space, that requires your response.

It’s the evening, but your husband’s mother is still in her crisp Armani dinner gown, poinsettia pin sparkling in the chandelier light where it's resting on her lapel, cross necklace on as it always is. You’d been itching only seconds ago to get into your pajamas, but now it feels like you can’t yet because the head of the household hasn’t. You walk over to where she’s standing by the entryway to the informal study and give her the appropriate air kisses.

“Hello,” you greet her, and definitely don’t miss the way her nose wrinkles in displeasure at how it’s still hard for you to look her in the eyes while addressing her.

“How was your time in the city?” she asks, out of pure curiosity. You hadn’t told her explicitly where you were going, but since Lucas knew, it was an assumption that she would eventually find out. There's no secret you can safely keep here, except for maybe one.

“It was an agreeable weekend,” you respond in a neutral tone, gathering up Lucas to back you up, “wouldn’t you agree, Mr. Wong?” He wouldn’t know, because he hadn’t spent a single day of this weekend actually in your physical presence, but every now and again he’s good for a lie. He'd made it known where his loyalties lie the first time you'd officially met.

Before he can answer, though, Mrs. Lee blockades him with a knowing, “Lucas, I’m sure you need to check in with security upon arrival.” In lady of the house terms, that means _get out of here because shit is about to go down._ He obliges, stepping away with a bow and leaving you there, defenseless. She gestures behind her to the study, you can hear the fireplace crackling from within. “y/n, would you care for a cup of hot chocolate with me before you get settled?”

Into the lion’s den you’re about to go. “Sure.”

“When did your train get in?” Mrs. Lee makes polite conversation as she always does, nothing too out of the ordinary yet. Maybe you’re just concocting this all up in your mind because of what had happened during these past three days. Maybe she actually just wants to have hot chocolate and catch up before the big news comes into town.

“Maybe half an hour ago? There was a big traffic jam leaving New—,” you begin to detail, but that blows out the window when you see that the study is not unoccupied. “Mother? Dad?”

Your parents are here in the estate, looking wildly uncomfortable in their church clothes, outfits they’ve pulled out in a clear attempt to fit in amongst the finery here. You’re about to say something more, but your mother’s severe shake of her head tells you to shut the fuck up in an instant. Your eyes are next drawn to the carved antique armchair positioned right by the roaring fire, Mr. Lee’s pleasantly cool expression not giving anything away. The same thought pricks in your mind, that this is just a family holiday night, that Mr. Lee had always been more than kind in trying to make your parents feel like they're a part of your life here.

And you’re instantly proven so wrong. So, so, so wrong.

Your husband’s father’s knee knocks against the coffee table by his leg, a purposeful gesture to draw attention to the magazine that’s on it. He doesn’t sound mad, but there’s an undertone of a promise of that emotion when he opens, “I will cut right to the chase. Would you please care to explain what this is all about?”

It’s a _New York Post_ , you can tell that from the lurid font alone, but from where you’re standing, you can’t quite make out what the headline or pictures are.

“We are so embarrassed,” your mother bursts out as soon as she can, hanging her head low in contriteness, “I would like to apologize again on my daughter’s behalf.” She’s making a scene, as always, and your father is silent, as always. You have no idea what the hell she could possibly be apologizing for. Mr. Lee knows where you were this weekend, had even encouraged you to do so. There was no attempt to hide from him that you weren’t going away to Europe with his son, considering the matter his trip revolved around.

“Calm down, please,” Mr. Lee soothes your mother’s hysteria before it can take over the room. He juts his head out towards the article and prods, “y/n?”

 _Okay, okay, here goes. You have no idea what this is going to be about, make sure you stay as cool and calm as always, no need to make this into an actual confrontation._ You don’t sit in any of the empty furniture, you come up behind the couch, snatch up the _Post_ , and turn slightly, so none of them can register your expression when you dive into the article.

> _Crackin’ Some Nuts!_
> 
> **Manhattan, December 12th** \- _Looks like chestnuts aren’t the only nuts getting cracked by a Nutcracker this holiday season. News broke earlier this year that New York Ballet Company’s youngest and most renowned soloist Taeyong Lee would be taking a leave of absence for the fall and winter seasons. Lee cited familial problems as the reason for his hiatus from the company - as our readers know, he is the son of the richest man in New Jersey, CEO Taeho Lee._
> 
> _But could we have found another?_
> 
> _This past weekend, Lee's wife - y/f/n y/l/n - who we learned from our sources is a fellow ballet dancer he married in July, was seen dining in the city with a mystery man. Rumor has it that since their nuptials, the couple has spent all of their time at the Lee estate with their son. So, to see her out and about with someone else was of notable interest. Our staff received numerous tips that she shared a cozy, intimate dinner with an unknown man - pictured here - but she was certainly stealthy enough in her actions that this image was all we were able to get. If you have a tip on this man’s identity or have any details about what occurred during this weekend rendezvous, contact sh.o@nypost.com._

You don’t even look at the picture before you’re denying, “Not sure what this is about.”

“You went to back New York this weekend, we saw Lucas’s listed itinerary,” Mrs. Lee reminds you of the piece of evidence that goes against your statement. Plus another, “And you haven’t exactly hidden your tattoo well.”

You slip your hand as high up in your turtleneck’s sleeve as you can, concealing the dainty outline of a lily on the back of your palm. It’s not an obscene tattoo, but she means it more as an identifying statement. You have to look at the picture to confirm.

It’s grainy to no end, the picture, but of course it’s you. You remember buying the maroon dress at Saks, cut just a bit lower than you’d usually wear. You’d bought the matching ruby and diamond hairpin, too, to wear next to the pearl one already pinned into your bun, just because. But you know it’s you beyond your physical appearance, because you’re convinced no one on this planet has worn this particular expression on their face before. Honey fascination dripped all over your features as you hang onto every word of the conversation, candlelight illuminating your eyes in enchanting beauty, cheek resting on your hand, visible trace of a flower there upon your skin, all swept up in the presence of your companion.

She's missed the most obvious, glaring signal in your favor, that massive, sparkling diamond that's also resting on that hand. You still have your wedding ring on, you'd never taken it off. It would be dumb of you to go out gallivanting in public with that piece of jewelry on display, to step out with a man that wasn't your husband and have intentions otherwise. It'd be so dumb. 

“No, I mean, obviously that’s me. Mr. Wong was with me the whole time,” you explain, because you can't deny something so obvious. You know that the listed itinerary of your travels only covered your comings and goings from the city, not a single morsel of what had occurred in between. To them, it should be logical that Lucas was at this dinner, chaperoning, and not visiting his mother in Pittsburgh like you'd instructed him to.

“You have to understand the optics of what this looks like, y/n,” Mr. Lee states, waffling between developed concern and firm sternness. 

The shot is of only you directly, but the short, dark hair on the turned head of your compatriot gives it away that you were with a man. Sadly for you, Lucas doesn’t have black hair.

“I don’t,” you feign ignorance, “what are the optics?”

“Well, I, uh—, er,” he can’t even form the words, had intended to let you implicate yourself.

“It looks like you’re having an affair,” his wife answers for him, not having a problem with hitting you with the naked observation.

It is heavily ironic that she is the one that's confronting you like this, considering what you know about her and the legitimacy of her own children. Even more so that she's fiddling with her crucifix pendant as she does so, trying to gather the strength to get through this. Your mother tucks her horrified expression into your father’s shoulder, not wanting to watch what’s unfolding. He sits there, phone in his hands, and doesn't make a single move in your defense. _I'm past the point of feeling bad that you won't come to my aid, despite the fact that that's your duty as a father. It's all on me to get out of this,_ _so hmm, hmm, how will I frame this for them?_

“Okay. Why does this picture make you think that?” You turn it all on them, force them to explain how they’ve come to this conclusion, give you the strands of excuses you can pick from, “As you know, my old life is in New York. My old colleagues, some of whom are men, work there. Many of the company members are men. Ten lives there, too, like so many other people I know.”

First off, they can’t be sure from the photo that the man in question is even at your table. But beyond that, they have no idea that you don't know any of the male bartenders hired at your old bar. And if you needed another line of defense, you doubt they keep tabs on Ten's hairstyles, know that he'd just dyed his hair back to black. It very well could be him in this photo. Winwin always keeps his that natural way as well, so does Doyoung, so does Johnny. You suppose you’re doing nothing more than listing possible affair partners in your mind, but nothing in that article had said anything explicit about what you were doing. There’s no harm in going out to a restaurant with a friend. The ambiance of the place could play all sorts of tricks on the mind. It certainly had for you.

“Are you having an affair?” she hits you with the repeat, blunt question, not bothering to play this game with you in her quest to get what she wants.

"We would never do anything to purposefully dishonor you or your family!" Your mother’s rush to apologize once again is lost to your train of thought, that you might have to look up in the dictionary what the actual definition of affair is. You’re internally arguing semantics with yourself over whether or not this weekend counted within the bounds of that definition. Both of you had sworn to not cross that line and had been steadfast in not breaking that swear. But who are you kidding. It hasn’t only been this weekend.

“Mama, Papa.”

_Ah, no. Here we go._

You turn where you’re standing, your face on the magazine crumpling under your hold, while your face in real life illuminates in the opposite manner. At least, you hope it does. Taeyong is back from his trip, standing in the doorway with his arms spread wide for a hug his mother. His grey cashmere beanie and scarf are still dusted with frosty licks of snow, and he looks happy.

“Ah, Yongie, you’re home!” Mrs. Lee squeals happily, jumping up and down on her crocodile skin heels in excited anticipation after she’s pulled away from the hug, “Tell us, tell us!”

You’re surprised they don’t know yet. You would’ve thought they were the first ones he’d call, considering you’d kept your phone off the whole time. You’re even more surprised that he’s prepared to break the news to you all at once, in this very public sort of setting.

“Mind if I steal my wife for a second first? I’ll come back and have hot chocolate with everyone and we can talk.” He at least takes you into consideration, and when you meet eyes, he has the decency to look a degree less joyful. You walk over to stand by his side, and he places a hand around your waist while greeting your parents, “Good to see you, Mr. y/l/n, Mrs. y/l/n.”

“Hello, Taeyong,” your mother excitedly acknowledges him the same way she always does, “So, so great to see you again!”

Taeyong has enough presence of mind, knowing eavesdropping is a guarantee with the adults involved, to bring you well out of earshot of the door of the study after you exit. He also is kind enough to remove his hold when you don’t melt into his graspand let you take your personal space to lean up against the marble railing of the staircase. There’s no one in the entryway, no security, no maids, it’s just you two.

You offer him a close-lipped smile. “Hello.”

“Hey, cake pop,” Taeyong says quietly, taking off his beanie to shake out the snow from his silver hair. He senses that there’s something amiss because he offers up the light, usual joke, “No hug?”

It’s been very sterile, these past ten minutes, you don’t have any particular catalyst to be upset with him. Yet. You bridge the five step gap and wrap your arms around his torso, leaning your head against his shoulder. You expect to breathe in the familiar scent of his Dior eau de toilette, and all you get is the spicy bombardment of what you know is Bulgari's signature. You'd spoken too soon. 

“Sorry,” you mumble against his pullover regardless, “your mother is all riled up about some New York Post article, tension’s kind of high.” No point in trying to keep him in the dark, Taeyong is the last person here who has any moral high ground to stand on in criticizing you. Not like you’re roaring to tell him the full truth, though, so you’ll see where it goes from here.

“I know, got the screenshot,” Taeyong concedes after you’ve broken apart from the embrace. You’re unsurprised that his mother sent the article along to him. But he doesn’t seem particularly bothered by it, considering his follow up question, “How was seeing Ten?”

Okay, not bad, he believes it so far, at least more than his parents do. And you doubt Taeyong has enough mental space to remember the precise details of what the back of Ten’s head looks like, know that it’s definitely not him in the photo that’s still scrunched in your hand.

“Fine. A typical weekend in the city,” you offer up no details, letting him infer as he may. Perhaps he’ll think about the weekends you spent together during that wisp of a year you'd been happy together, crammed in the tiny apartment of yours you'd re-visited this weekend.

Taeyong’s thinking of another matter entirely. “You did keep your phone off, though.”

“Like I told you I might do.” You don’t have to recall the phrasing exactly for him to remember, but it’s there in your mind, _I’ll probably keep my phone off for some of it, for sanity’s sake_ , and the reluctant face he’d pulled when he’d agreed.

That reluctance is still a part of him now because Taeyong rubs at his right earlobe, his signature nervous tick making its first appearance as he admits, “I didn’t have a problem with it, I just kinda wish you did, because Milan was—,”

The first appearance of your own bitterness comes to the forefront when you cross your arms over your body and sigh,“I don’t really care about Milan.” You don’t want him to have a single second for protest, for getting the upper hand to bombard you with details you know will hurt you. You don’t even let his body fully react to your comment before you’re pelting him with the more urgent, “Where’s Sung?”

You’ve been so caught up in the snow and the _Post_ and those three text messages that you hadn’t even noticed that Taeyong had walked in alone, and you really don’t like yourself for that.

“He’s with Chae, they should be coming up soon,” Taeyong tells you, knowing that you always hold a superficial level of worry in regards to Sung. But the moment you hesitate gives him the moment he shouldn’t have had to softly murmur, “Y/n, we really should talk about Milan.” Then, more urgently amend it to, “No, I mean, we kind of need to.”

 _I know what that means, so we don’t._ _Her_ _baby is yours, you can tell me that and go._

You don't deign him with a response, you think you'll get a pass for standing there in blank and unmoving silence. You're not sure, though, if you're going to be blessed with the hand of forgiveness for choosing that exact moment to take your phone out - under the guise of passing the time in waiting for Taeyong's little sister to reappear - and send your response back to that unsaved number. You'd felt guilty earlier, for daring to feel even a dreg of joy at the presence of that tenderness in your phone, but who cares now. Who honestly fucking cares. 

> [10:43 pm] **you:** this weekend meant more to me than you could ever know  
>  [10:43 pm] **you:** thankyouthankyouthankyou  
>  [10:43 pm] **you:** i meant it btw, all of it.

A guardian angel appearing here, in the form of a bundled up little marshmallow of a boy, rescues you from the choppy waters you’ve just been thrown into. Chaeyeon is leading Sung by the hand through the foyer right to you. Her red dress, which matches her mother’s in hue, lends to the almost-perfect picture of the Lee family, assembling for the holidays. She waves happily when she sees you and her brother together, beaming with excitement, you’re sure she’s full to bursting with stories about seeing Europe for the first time. That makes the crystal tear that pools in the corner of your eye feel so, so, so much worse.

You sniff it away to put on your brightest of bright smiles, to crouch down and throw your arms out with abandon and chirp, “Is that my cupcake!”

Sung must’ve been too bouncy for the butlers to get his winter gear off, he comes toddling across the rug at the maximum speed his chunky boots allow, and practically tackles you with the full force an almost-three-year-old body can muster. Your eyes flutter closed when his cold, squishy cheek presses into yours as he hugs you, you’re glad he’s still wearing his coat so he won’t warble in a complaint about how you’re holding him too tightly. You missed him, you missed him so much, this weekend was everything but it was awful without him. He’s the only person in this whole place who actually cares about you in any way—,

“Hi mommy!”

You’re not able to stop the tear from falling upon your cheek this time, because, well. You never thought you’d hear the boy call you that, maybe ever.How did you ever get to this point?

**tbc.**

so. here we are. i am so freaking excited to introduce you to this whole new world.

this was borne out of a few ideas i've been ruminating on but never felt compelled to fully write. i was kind of lost after my previous work ended, stumbled upon a draft, and then just absolutely went to town on idea planning. i think it's going to be very entertaining, thought provoking, and as always super duper romantic lol. if you were with me for _stitch_ , i would like to give a disclaimer that this is going to be wholly different. there's going to be some similar tropes explored, maybe some scenarios that evoke the same experience, but we are going a whole other angle here. there will be no world building, no politics, no death and violence and all that good stuff.

this is drama drama drama drama. you're getting an epically long journey this time, high school, college, life after. there's going to be spectacles! there's going to be tragedy! of course there's going to be angst! there's going to be longing and covert looks and secret rendezvous and the slowest of slow burns and all my signature classics. we're going super modern, we're talking regular people in the regular world, all the struggles and real life emotions that humans experience as they form relationships. something i haven't touched on that much in my other stories is religion, i know that's usually a heavy topic but i was intrigued with including it at least tangentially, especially with some of the plot points that will develop. it will be discussed here more in a moral way than it is in any sort of extreme manner. not that this needs to be said but i am a great proponent of freedom of religion as well as not believing, whatever you choose to do personally. this is a work of fiction that is designed not to bring offense to one's belief code, so please let me know if i egregiously step out of line.

as two out of the three main characters are in the ballet profession, you'll get to dive deep into that lifestyle, the hard work that's put in, the trials and tribulations of making it in a hard business. you can tell from this preview snippet that a child is involved, you will get to meet him and find out the role he plays in all of this. you will get to see the story weave together to explain why this opening weekend occurred in the first place. AND OF COURSE I KNOW YALL HERE JUST FOR THE ROMANCE, and it is particularly delicious in this one.

so i hope you join me for this ride! again, i am beside myself with enthusiasm to share this new tale with everyone. thank you for reading this! xoxoxo

as a conclusion, here are some answers to frequently asked questions (that haven't even been asked yet but i just know are coming lol):

  1. **loseyoutoloveme, why do you always write about this particular member?** because i just do, okay, for some reason i can't get into the headspace to write about anyone else and it's already hard enough for me as is to gather inspiration. let me live lol  
  

  2. **similarly, loseyoutoloveme, why do you set a lot of your stories in new york?** this is the one actual fantasy i indulge in while writing. i've always loved visiting the place so this is my way of pretending that i get to live the glamorous city life  
  

  3. **wow you're a repetitive beeyotch. loseyoutoloveme, why do you like to include themes such as cheating and infidelity in your works?** because they're fiction people!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!! fsdjdsfj i hate cheating, i hate cheaters, i loathe, loathe, loathe the idea of being unfaithful to your partner. but it happens in real life and by god does it make delicious drama for a fictional story. i'm pretty confident in staying none of my stories actually romanticize cheating and i'm pretty sure this one won't either. but if for some reason it does, this is your friendly reminder NEVER TO CHEAT ON YOUR PARTNER. PERIOD.  
  

  4. **loseyoutoloveme, where did you get all your information about the ballet world?** id like to give a shoutout to one of my close college friends who was a dancer and taught me a lot of this information! and also google and youtube for all the research i did to make it seem believable. dancers hold me accountable too lol  
  

  5. **loseyoutoloveme, what's your posting schedule going to be like for this?** i'll probably start off with once a week like i usually do as i make my way through writing the final half of the story. when i get to a point where i'm finished and editing, or i feel that it's dragging, i'll increase the frequency.



okay, that's it! ta-ta for now!


	2. assemblé: to assemble, to join

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sana nudges you in the arm and mutters under her breath, “Look over there. New pianist."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> three quick notes before we get started!
> 
> 1\. thank u to everyone who checked the prologue out and found it interesting!! i hope the actual story is as satisfying hehe
> 
> 2\. i will be discussing some ballet terms throughout this story. you don't really have to know much about them to understand the story or plot, but if you want to learn more or have a reference, here's a written glossary: city-academy.com/news/a-guide-to-ballet-glossary/, as well as a video playlist i used for accuracy purposes considering i don't have thaaat much prior knowledge. www.youtube.com/watch?v=zQl78gCPHxs&list=PL7E40E6E2DAB561B5&ab_channel=RoyalOperaHouse
> 
> 3\. this is a video of the variation oc is working on youtube.com/watch?v=omqyVhJqozk&ab_channel=TheBunduBallerina
> 
> enjoy!

**-ACT I-**

The piano is already playing by the time you shed your coat outside the studio, but you make no move to hurry up. You tiptoe into the room, past the black-haired head of the pianist, and wink right at Sana when you take your place at the end of the barre.

“You’re late,” Seulgi calls from across the room, not even turning her head to catch you sneaking to your spot as she corrects one of your classmates.

You seamlessly fit yourself into order, extending your leg out on the right note and responding at the same time, “I had an interview.”

 _I swear it’s not a lie, I really just came from the coffee shop across town._ _I’d even built in enough buffer to make it to class on time, but the bus driver had actually decided to obey the law today and not run wild through all the yellow lights._

“That doesn’t change the fact that you’re late.”

“Would you give me a pass if I told you it was for the New York Ballet Company?” you joke, which then makes all of the other girls in class chuckle out loud.

Seulgi rolls her eyes in a totally unprofessional manner, but you can tell that she’s also trying to stifle a laugh. You’re maybe ten minutes late, at most, you know she’s just giving you a hard time because you’re usually never late.

“No,” she answers, “but thank you for gracing us with your presence, Ms. y/l/n.”

You turn to the other side and begin the new set of tendus, stretching out the kinks in your legs from where they’d been folded up in the bus seat. You’re filled with such a sense of peace and ease as you work through the exercise. There’s truly nothing better than salvaging a long, stressful day with a fun ballet class at the end of it. The only reason you’d been able to stay composed through the interview was the promise that you’d be coming straight here afterwards.

Once the light, classical music has trailed off, and you’ve finished your balancing, Sana nudges you in the arm and mutters under her breath, “Look over there. New pianist."

“I think I noticed that it wasn’t the usual sixty year old that plays for us, Sanawich,” you tease.

Kyuhyun had been playing piano for the studio since long before you or your best friend started taking classes here. But he’d been talking about retiring to move to Florida with his family for a while now, and he had the kind of soft personality that would’ve avoided a going away party or celebration. You’d been clued in to the newcomer when you scurried in and didn’t see the familiar wisps of grey hair that the older man had.

“He’s hot,” Sana swoons, craning her neck to get a better look. You just have to laugh because she is always boy crazy, no matter what situation you’re in. Who could this mystery person be?

You twist your head to peer around Eunha standing at the portable barre and you recognize a set of wire-rimmed glasses and straight black bangs sat behind the grand piano. You’re not sure if you have enough authority to comment on her choice of adjective, but you suppose that Jaehyun Jung is handsome enough, in a sort of intellectual, buttoned-up way.

“Noted,” you reply, not feeling any type of way about her comment beyond mild intrigue. “I don’t get why you’re acting like this is a surprise, though? He goes to our school.”Your graduating class at the one public school in your suburb is like, two hundred people. You thought everyone knew everyone, or that might just be your duty as student council president.

“He does?” Sana asks, as she takes a confused glance over to where the boy looks equally as confused thumbing through his sheet music. “Why haven’t I seen him before?”

_Because he isn’t even in your social stratosphere, you wouldn’t give him a second glance at school._

You can’t give her that the answer. Since a) that would be really rude to say about someone you barely know, however true it may be, and b) because Seulgi is now explaining the next combination, and any more talking you and Sana do will definitely earn you a scolding.

“Shhhh, I can’t get in more trouble,” you warn her in a hushed tone, before promising, “we’ll talk after.” Satisfied that she’ll get the gossip later, Sana turns back around and listens to the rest of the counts for dégagés.

And truthfully, you kind of forget all about it.

When you get into the zone of ballet class, there’s really not much that can take you out of it. And perhaps you’re more relaxed now that the interview is done, but you really have a fantastic class. You hit a quadruple pirouette your first try, and when, dumbfounded, you attempt to repeat it, you actually manage to pull out five rotations. More than ever, it feels like you’re flying during the jumping portion of class, the petit allegro bursting out of you with vivacity, the grande allegro taking over your entire body.

The only reminder you have that it’s not the usual pianist in the corner is that there’s a slight lag between Seulgi explaining what she wants, and the twinkling notes emanating from the instrument. Kyuhyun used to know exactly what excerpts from what ballets he could play along with your exercises, familiar tunes and jaunty ditties that would brighten up your physical exhaustion. You can’t blame Jaehyun for looking as flustered as he is, one hand pushing up his glasses every two seconds, the other hand flipping frantically through the pages as he tries to keep up. Seulgi resorts to telling him time signatures she wants, and by the end of it he seems to have picked up on the general flow of the class. 

“Thank you for working hard, everyone!” Seulgi cheers after you’ve finished the final exercise of the night, a set of soaring leaps that set your heart rate racing. You step to the side and curtsey to her with full appreciation for the class she’s just taught, the tradition. She reminds everyone, “Thank your pianist before you go!”

As is expected, you’re supposed to swing by the bench of the grand piano and curtsey to whoever has played for you during class. The luxury of having live accompaniment is something not all dance studios have, and you’re definitely lucky that they’ve continued the tradition even after Kyuhyun’s retirement.

But you break from tradition just a little bit this time. You loiter at the back of the group of your peers, and before you actually bend your knee in front of your classmate, you call to him, “Hey, Jung!”

Jaehyun’s head whips around so fast his glasses go a bit askew on his nose, and he totally fumbles his file folder of sheet music everywhere. While he nervously picks the leaflets up from where they’ve scattered over the keys of the piano, he stutters, “H-hello? You know me?”

“We’ve been in the same class at Edison for four years,” you point out, wondering if he made that connection as well.

_It’s not just that, I know exactly who you are. It’s been pretty hard for me to forget, if we’re being honest here._

The corner of his lip flinches in a slight smile of recognition, then it disappears. “Ah, right.”

“First time playing for a ballet class?” you ask carefully, not intending to make him uncomfortable. Which is exactly what you do - his face practically disappears into the baggy fabric of his sweatshirt in his effort to conceal his blush. You backtrack, to assuage his discomfort even a little, “Don’t look so scared, it’s nothing to be worried about.”

Jaehyun’s blush doesn’t cool at all but he quietly explains, “Yes, I’m the only pianist in the program free at this time.” Makes sense that they’d try to pull a student from Edison’s orchestra to help out, the studio could probably get away with paying a teenager reduced wages and save money that way.

“Well, thanks for helping out, we all really appreciate it,” you express your gratitude sincerely.

Which does not translate, somehow, because he mutters a low, “You don’t have to be sarcastic about it.”

“I’m not. We’re lucky to have a live pianist. You’re good at it.” You know Jaehyun’s the lead pianist for the senior orchestra — you see him all the time when the squad goes to pick up RM’s girlfriend Miyeon, who plays violin. You suppose ballet must be wildly different from what he’s used to, though, and decide to offer,“If it makes it easier for you, I can send you some sheet music that’s specific for ballet. Probably will help you get a better idea of what Madame Kang wants when she asks.”

“Yeah, I kind of have no idea what I’m doing,” he admits, sheepish as he fidgets with the strand of bangs that’s fallen into his eyes.

“I’ll write notes in so you know what exercises are what. Add me on Facebook,” you suggest. It’s not a big deal to you. You’ve been getting private lessons for the past few years with all sorts of random accompanists, you already have a file tree of organized sheet music you can send his way.

Jaehyun must be the kind of shy person that has trouble talking with strangers. You don’t think he’s made eye contact with you once this entire conversation, struggling now to even get anything out, “We’re.. we’re already fr—,” Ah, you know what he’s trying to say. You have over two thousand Facebook friends, accumulated over six years of summer intensives and two different schools and ballet and your odd jobs. No wonder you couldn’t pick him out from the crowd.

“You have me on Facebook already? Great, I’ll send it via Messenger.” You give him a friendly wave as you pick up your stuff and head out from the studio, “See you around!”

Jaehyun doesn’t wave back, he stands there in awkward silence, notebook clutched in his hands.

After you’ve toweled away the sweat and cooled off from your workout properly, you get re-dressed in your formal interview clothes that you’d rushed over in, preparing to take the long, dull bus ride back to your house. You’re met, though, with the pleasant surprise of seeing your boyfriend’s Mercedes waiting in the spot right in front of the studio. He flashes his lights at you, and you see that Sana is already waiting in the back seat.

You climb into the passenger seat, and you lean over the dash of the car to kiss Jungkook on the cheek with your sweet greeting, “Hey, big boy. Thanks for picking us up so I didn’t have to wait for the bus.”

“Anytime, babe,” he drawls, leaning back with an arrogant, proud smirk at his good deed. “I still don’t get why you take the bus everywhere. Just buy a car.”

You hope he doesn’t feel the way your palm goes clammy over his. You’ve been dating him since homecoming, so it’s been six months of this. You are no less nervous every time he brings up a similar subject.

Sana, thankfully, saves you, when she leans forward between the seats and chirps, “Wait, so what’s the tea on the piano guy? I want to know what you know!”

“What piano guy?” Jungkook asks as he backs out of the spot and roars out of the parking lot.

You take a sip of your water, then explain, “Our old pianist Kyuhyun finally retired. A kid from our school is helping out for the time being. You know Jaehyun?”

“Who?”

“Jaehyun Jung?”

Jungkook thinks for a minute as he drives, forehead furrowed under the brim of his Edison Lacrosse cap. He knows everybody at Edison and everyone knows him, but apparently nothing comes to mind, he just shrugs, “No clue? Is he an athlete, I’ve never heard of him before.”

Sana shoots you a look through the rear-view window like, _see, I’m not the only one who has no idea who he is._ Honestly, you’re about to lose quite a bit of patience, because both of them are on class council with you, and should therefore know exactly what you’re talking about. 

“He’s Mark Lee’s older brother,” you remind them, and both of your companions nervously shift in their seats.

“Ah, Mark Lee. The fundraiser kid with cancer,” Jungkook uncouthly yet correctly identifies the pianist’s brother. “Awkward, I didn’t even know they were related.”

There is the exact pinpoint you’d been waiting for. You’re not one to care about such pseudo-important, false constructs like popularity or social standing. But both of them had specifically been there last fall when RM, the class treasurer, had set up the GoFundMe for the freshman when he was diagnosed with leukemia. You’d thought their understanding of the situation was deeper than superficial, but apparently not. Neither your boyfriend nor your best friend seem to care about anyone outside of your friend group, who could technically be considered ‘popular’ within Edison.

Sana pretty much ignores that for a more pressing, “Jaehyun’s hot. Like for a nerd, he’s super, super hot.”

“Maybe you should ask him out so you can mooch rides off of him,” Jungkook badgers her.

“I can’t ask someone out I had no idea about until today, what will that say about me?” Sana shows her hand entirely with that statement.

_You can find Jaehyun hot all you want, but you know you’d never cross within an inch of his proximity because his social standing is practically negative._

He keeps to himself, you don’t think you’ve ever seen him hang out with anyone but his little brother, not even the rest of the people in the orchestra. You don’t get that, because he was in your AP US History class junior year for a few weeks before you’d switched out to train for half the day, and he always seemed perfectly nice. Really nice, super smart, and mouse quiet — all textbook characteristics of a social pariah at this ironic hellhole.

“That you have no standards?”

“Hey!”

“You know I’m right!”

You let your boyfriend and your best friend bicker back and forth, mentally prepping yourself for the conversations that are about to come when you get home. You have to pick out the morsels of your day that you think your mother will most like to hear, that you’d gotten an A on your AP Psych exam, that the interviewer said that your resume was _quite significant_ for a student your age, and definitely nothing about how class had gone this evening. But honestly, you’re hoping that you need even less than that basic information.

You haven’t even gotten one shoe off by the front door before you hear your mother’s call from the living room, “How was your interview?”

“Fine,” you call back, hovering on the landing, deciding if you want to go in and see her, or go right upstairs to your attic office.

“Do you think they liked you, bunny?” Your dad’s placid voice wafts out from where he’s sitting in his usual spot, the recliner only three feet from the TV that’s blasting a Knicks game. If that’s all you’re going to get from him tonight, you’re at least touched he wanted to ask.

Don’t get too high, don’t get too low, keep it neutral. “Sure.”

Your mother doesn’t like that strategy, because she immediately warns, “Hopefully you didn’t have this kind of attitude during your meeting.”

You sigh deeply and silently, running a hand through the loose hairs that have escaped your bun. You make sure to banish the exasperation in your voice, “I didn’t, don’t worry. I have a lot of homework, good night.”

You’re starving and you need a shower and you want to collapse all at once, but that requires being on this floor. You’ll come down later, when both of them have retired to their rooms, and eat dinner on your own. For now, they’ll have no idea that you don’t actually get right to your homework, and instead spend a good two hours marking out every last sheet music document you own with dozens and dozens of little comments.

_La Bayadere shades intro - use in adagio (lots of slow, high legs) at barre_

_Sleeping Beauty waltz - good for pirouettes (spinny move) in the center_

_Don Quixote male variation (a personal fave!) - play for coda (jumping in a circle) at the end of class_

—

Your first attempt at a double step-over turn doesn’t finish quite in time with the flourishing trill of the music. You huff in frustration, then straighten out your pink chiffon skirt, rewind the music on your phone to prepare to go through it again. You hold your arms out and point your toe, and right when you launch into motion, you hear the panted, “Am I in the wrong place?!”

Your body sails around in three perfect rotations, somehow prodded along by the surprise interjection. You land with a neat pause to see Jaehyun in the doorway, totally frantic.

You ask rhetorically, “I don’t know, are you?”

In a recall to the first time he’d been at the studio, he nearly drops his sheet music everywhere, managing to catch it against his body before they go flying. He nervously collects himself while explaining, “The email said something about help with an audition or portfolio performance thing, what’s that?” He’s getting more and more flustered, “Where do I go, what am I supposed to d—, oh shit,” he curses when he actually drops his phone this time.

“Don’t hurt yourself, man,” you half soothe, half joke, hoping you don’t come across condescending when you can’t hide your charmed grin. “The portfolio performance thing is mine.”

Jaehyun’s glance jolts up in total surprise, “You asked for me?”

“No, I asked for a pianist, and they sent me you, piano man.” You have no idea where the nickname slips out from, but it kind of fits him.

“Ha,” he lets out one note of sarcastic, musical, mocking laughter.

“I’m sorry,” you apologize immediately, “I like giving people nicknames. I don’t have to use that one.”

_We’re not friends, we’ve never had an actual conversation before this week. There’s no reason why I should use familiar language with him right off the bat. I have no idea if he’s comfortable with that kind of thing, and judging by his demeanor, he’s probably not._

“It’s fine.” Hmmm, that’s a surprise, that he doesn’t seem upset as he goes to sit at the piano bench. “What’s a portfolio performance?”

You flop yourself onto the marley in a very contrasting scene of clumsiness, and you stretch your legs out so you can take a break from standing. Jaehyun’s apparently your Facebook friend, which means he’s seen your status updates and pictures and posts, but you don’t know how much he actually knows. You’ll give him a little context to be polite, “So, you can probably guess I want to be a professional dancer.”

Jaehyun nods, because that’s sort of public knowledge about you, “Like the star of a company or something, what’s it called? Prima donna?”

You let out a surprise cackle at his genuine miss, and lean back with a smile to correct him, “Prima ballerina. Close enough.” You shrug, wanting to be modest about your career aspirations, “Yeah, that’s the eventual goal I guess. And what I honestly should already be doing right now.”

Every dancer in the country in your situation and with your skill level, doing half school and half pre-professional training, has auditioned for a company or is already sitting on a contract. Not to pull a _you’re not like other girls_ , but you’re kind of not like other dancers in this scenario.

You tell Jaehyun that, too, “The deal I made with my parents is college has to be involved. And for dance programs, you need to send in video footage to be considered for a spot, separate from your application. I’ll send the tape wherever I get in. Hence me here late, hence you here, too.” Your mother’s words are drilled into your head, _you will go to college and that’s final_ , and so is the very short, very specific list of schools that you have kept close to your chest since finishing your applications.

“Very dedicated of you,” Jaehyun quips, the first drop of a personality you’ve been able to glean out of him, a bit of caustic rust under his worn grey Patagonia vest.

You match it with a little dose of your own, a haughty shoulder in the air and, “Have I ever given the impression otherwise?”

“Class council president, honor roll, soon to be the first repeat prom queen after winning it as a junior, I think everyone has gotten the impression.” When Jaehyun ticks off each of your accomplishments, ones that you don’t really consider accomplishments, they don’t feel quite so false to you. Like they actually matter to some degree and aren’t just utterly useless parroted phrases that your peers use to get in your good graces.

“Psh, whatever,” you brush it off, though, as you always do.

Jaehyun puts his notebook up on the stand and begins to flip through the pages, asking, “What’s the ballet you’re doing? I looked through the sheet music you sent me already.”

“Ah, our spring program is a performance of Giselle, so I’m just doing my first act solo for the video.”

“You’re playing Giselle, I presume.”

“Very dedicated of me, right?” You throw his words back to him, wondering if that drop of personality will return. You’re treated to a smile, loaded with a surprise peek of his hidden double dimples and the sweep of his hair as he ducks his head to hide his entertainment. Hm, maybe Sana was right.

“I don’t think there’s any Giselle in here,” he solemnly announces after he’s flipped through all of the leaflets. “Do you have the sheet music for it? Could you send it to me?”

You roll over onto your belly, again totally inelegant, to grab your bag and rifle through some of your folders. You come up empty, and gripe, “Seulgi gave me extra printouts to bring to my sessions with Kyuhyun, but I always left them at home because he had it memorized.” You think of the one message you have in your inbox from him, a simple _thanks_ , with a thumbs up emoji, and you’re curious about something, “By the way, how’d you have me on Facebook already?”

“Everyone has you on Facebook,” Jaehyun reminds you, with a pointed glance. Right, right, the two thousand plus randoms that you felt obliged to accept. Now you kind of want to cull it down to the people that matter. Who would that even be? Sana, and….Jungkook? That’s it.

You reach for the knots on your pointe shoes and begin untying them, getting back on topic, “I’ll bring the sheet music next time.”

“Next time? You don’t want to work on anything now?” he asks, a bit of nervousness returning that you barely pick up on.

You give up on undoing your shoes to take a moment and relish in how exhausted you feel, lying back on the floor and peering up to the spinning fan. Then, you groan, “I feel lazy as heck. Just took two private classes back to back.” Now that you’re thinking about it, your body is telling you that you’re tired, so you’ll stay late at the studio, stretch, and put off going home as long as possible. You don’t want to make him stay, so you offer, “You can leave if you want, don’t feel obliged to hang around.”

You do catch Jaehyun’s worried expression, though, the snag of his pink lip between his teeth as he thinks. That forces you to think of last fall, makes you add on the stipulation, “Don’t worry, I’ll make sure they pay you in full.” You’ll pretend not to notice how he looked relieved at that. You didn’t want to be right in your assumption.

He doesn’t linger on the subject, he actually shoots your offer down, “Ah, my mom has the car because Mark had a… rap club meeting?”

You know barely anything about the younger boy beyond their familial relation. The knowledge that little Mark Lee is in _rap club_ pulls out a hearty chuckle from you, “Haha, oh my gosh. How is he doing? His health?”

It’s a sobering subject change, but you couldn’t help it. Every person at Edison knows Mark and how he was diagnosed with leukemia right after homecoming last fall, the kind of popularity he shouldn’t have had. The story might’ve faded now, months later, but it’s a unique kind of harrowing. You’d always heard his updates through the grapevine rumor mill, you’d never gotten it straight from the source in front of you.

Jaehyun rubs a ragged hand over his eyes, glasses pulled away, and he mumbles, “His scans have been clear for a month now, but obviously he’s never out of the woods.” He peeks at you from behind his sleeve and asks, “You remembered?”

You’ll never be able to erase the image of Mark’s pale, sunken face, dwindling hair matching his mother’s curly black mess, faint smile arising as RM handed the fundraiser money over. “Kinda hard to forget, you know,” you admit, but are relieved to know that things seem to have improved. “That’s great to hear about him.”

“What’s Giselle about, anyways?” Jaehyun quickly, quickly moves on. Obviously the topic of his brother is a sore one, and you will let him have this.

“Long or short version?”

“Short, if you have to leave soon.”

“Nah, I don’t want to go home right now,” you offer up an admission of your own, one you’re not sure he’ll realize is something personal. You don’t usually give up these bits of yourself, but so what. You can be friendly, especially after you’ve just asked about his brother’s _cancer recovery._

He takes a cheeky dig at you, “That’s the most relatable thing you’ve said tonight.”

“Hey,” you grumble, despite knowing what he means, what kind of image you present.

“I’m joking. I get it. I have four brothers, so you can imagine how it is or me,” he explains his commentary before you can get mad, not that you would have. He steers you back to his questioning, “Giselle. Tell me.”

“Giselle is a peasant girl who lives with her mother. She loves to dance, but has a heart condition that prevents her from doing so.” This is why you love ballet, because you can live as another for the two hours you’re on stage, twirl your way through a waterfall of lovely, protective fantasy without the perils of real life.“She falls in love with a peasant man, Albrecht, and they spend all their time together dancing. There’s a different guy who’s in love with her, and he finds out that Albrecht is actually a prince in disguise, and that he is also engaged. When he tells Giselle, she goes mad, the grief overwhelms her weak heart, and she dies.”

He looks visibly upset, “What the hell? That’s awful!”

His extreme reaction causes you to giggle, feeling more at ease than ever, “Giselle becomes a wili, which is the ghost of a girl who dies brokenhearted before her wedding day. One night, Albrecht stumbles upon the wilis at Giselle’s grave and the wili queen, Myrtha, commands him to dance to his death as revenge. But Giselle, who has forgiven him, dances with him and her love saves his life.As the sun rises, they say goodbye, and she goes to rest peacefully.”

The first time you’d seen this ballet, on a VHS rented from the library, you’d cried your little eyes out in your living room. Now, ten years later, you know you still have nowhere close to the life experience necessary to interpret this ballet fully. But at least now you can relate to it on a personal level. To love dance that much - in that whole, all consuming way, more than anything else, anyone else - you get it.

Jaehyun doesn’t seem as enamored with it as you are. But he’s too polite to insult you, so he settles in the middle, “Are all ballets that crazy?”

“No, definitely not,” you deny with a smile, understanding that the supernatural element makes the story come across wacky. “Have to admit that it’s one of my favorites, though.”

“What’s the top, then? I remember you said you really liked Don Quixote in your notes.”

“The Nutcracker.”

Your love affair with the holiday classic predates even Giselle, on your first and only trip to New York City as a five year old. It’s a vivid set of recollections, holding hands with your dad across the third balcony seat, clutching a doll in your other hand instead of your mother’s, and dancing together with him in the plaza after it was over. You’ve performed it every year since starting dance, it’s a part of you in a way that Jaehyun might not understand. Unless there’s a piano piece that he could not go a day without hearing, something like that.

“Ah, Tchaikovsky. I know that one, at least. Waltz of the Flowers is a favorite, but nothing comes close to the final dance of the Sugar Plum and her prince at the end,”Jaehyun tells you, “I’ve known how to play that one since I was seven. My dad and uncle got me on the classics as soon as they could.”

You hesitate for a second, hit with the realization that your tastes align perfectly, and you can’t help the blurt, “That’s my favorite! I’ve always wanted to perform that part. It’s my dream role of all time.”

Lucky enough to have parts and starring roles aplenty, this one character, the Sugar Plum Fairy, has been the most elusive, not due to your own faults. Seulgi chose to invite a professional couple from New Jersey Dance Troupe as guest performers every year, but you’re sure that part will come in time. When you’re a professional for sure.

“I’m actually kind of nervous about Giselle,” you admit out of nowhere. “There aren’t many guys who are in the program, so they’ve hired someone out of Trenton Ballet to be my partner. He doesn’t come for rehearsals until the week of the show.” You’ve been doing rehearsals alone since the casting was announced, since none of the younger boys had partnering skills up to par to help you out. You want this to turn out well, and this is not a situation that helps you in achieving that.

“I’m sure you’ll be more than fine,” Jaehyun reassures you, like it’s his job to do so. “When is it?”

“A week after graduation. That’s gonna be a stressful time.”

“Well, I’ll make sure you don’t have to worry about the music.”

He’s still nice, nothing has seemed to change in your memory about that. You’re virtual strangers, he could’ve not given a single care about any of your - admittedly far more trivial - life’s worries. But he’d been empathetic enough to make that kind of promise, really, so, so nice of him to do that.

Sana sticks her head in through the door and practically screams for you, “Y/n, big news!!!” She’d been in the other room, in the middle of class with the intermediate dancers, which means this interruption of your conversation has some strong intent behind it. You get up and wave, so she knows that you’re on your way.

“Gotta go,” you call over your shoulder to Jaehyun as you run out of the room, untied shoes still on your feet, bag a chaotic mess.

As soon as the glass door of the studio is closed behind you, Sana yells it right in your face, “I got into Rutgers! The rolling decisions just came out!”

You’re bowled over with stunned shock, you don’t even have the wits about you to react right away. But then you match her scream with one of your own, “Ah, what?!?! Congratulations, Sanawich! The musical theater department won’t know what’s hit them!” You tackle her in a hug, knowing how much work she (with a strong assist from you on the essays) put in on the applications. She’s going to fulfill her heart’s dream of becoming a Broadway performer, this is only the first step towards her long career, you’re sure of it.

Sana squishes you in her arms, beaming cheek pressed up against yours, and she whines, “I’m going to miss you sooooo much next year.” She pulls back from the embrace to shoot you a silly, stern glare, and beg, “Are you sure you can’t come with, we’ve always wanted to go to college together.”

You’ve been best friends since you were babies, and this idea was cemented into your head once you were old enough to _hear_ of something like college. So yeah, it’s been a dream held for a while. One that you’ll have to shut down.

“I just don’t think Rutgers is in the cards for me,” you say diplomatically, because you didn’t apply. It hadn’t even floated towards the list you were considering, not once.

“Ugh, you just want to go to UNC with Jungkook, right?” she moans, thinking she knows the exact reason you’re breaking from the pact. “Please don’t pick him over me.”

_It’s sweet that you think I’m the kind of person who would do that for a significant other, drop everything at the snap of a finger. I’m definitely not._

“No. I’ll tell you when I know and not a moment sooner,” you renounce her theory, before you tug on her cheek in fondness and swat her away from you. “Now go, before Seulgi yells at you.” You can see your teacher watching the pair of you through the glass, and just know that Sana had checked her phone when she wasn’t supposed to. She must’veseen the decision and come running right to you without even asking if she could.

You give her one final wave as you finish dealing with your shoes and your skirt, and then you literally sprint out of the studio, half dressed, because you see the bus coming up the street. You barely make it on board by the skin of your sweaty upper lip. You find the last seat available in the very back, allowing you to stretch out and rest your legs. It’s really going to suck without Sana next year. Sometimes you feel like she’s the only true friend you have anymore, one that is anchored into you beyond choosing to simply orbit in your atmosphere. Things will be different being away from her, that’s for sure.

Once you’re in the foyer of your house, you call from your usual spot, “I’m home!”

You’re super late after two privates and your almost rehearsal with Jaehyun, your dad has already gone to bed, which means your mother actually gets up from the couch to peer over the stair railing and ask, “How was your day?

“Fine,” you answer mutedly, fiddling with the strap on your dance bag as you recall the bland details, "got an A on my government test, had a class council meeting, started preparing for my audition portfolio, will have it sent out by the end of the week.” You speed up your tone at the end of the sentence, trying to get the last bit of it out while internally cursing at yourself for bringing the subject up.

It should be no surprise that your mother latches right onto it, prodding, “Is that really necessary for an extracurricular?” That’s one good clue of information for you, though, because now you know that she still thinks you’re doing dance as a hobby in college. She’s not aware that you actually plan to major in it, more than that, if you get in, your intended college’s ballet program is incredibly competitive _and_ well-known.

“I would like to make a well-rounded and strong case for myself,” you present her the idea in a neutral tone.

“Make sure you spend equal time studying for your AP tests as you do in the studio.”

“Yes, Mother.” End of conversation, you don’t want to entertain any more of it. You make it a few stairs up to the attic before you sigh and cave, turning back around to tell her the news before she hears it from anyone else, “By the way, Sana got into Rutgers.”

“Oh, that’s fantastic, God be good!” You hate that you can’t tell if your mom is genuinely excited or not, you’re too tired to try and figure it out. And far more preoccupied with her follow-up question, “Do you think you will be joining her?”

She’s trying to re-open the channel of information in a sly, subtle way. You don’t blame her because you’ve kept the information starkly closed off for over a year now. Your counselor had asked for a college list at the end of junior year, and from that point on, your lips had been sealed. Every landmark of the application process had been done on your own.

You shake your head, giving up a bare bones, “I am not.”

You’re reminded of the reason why you’ve played everything so close to the chest when your mother immediately rip-roars into an assumption, “Please don’t tell me that you’re settling for somewhere like Newark Community.”

“There is nothing wrong with going to community college, that’s an option many of my classmates choose.”

Jennie and Miyeon had decided that was the path they wanted to take, so did Jungkook’s best friend Mingyu. You know you conceal your aggravation well because she doesn’t react further, but it’s teeming inside you. _It’s rude, beyond rude. I’ve never understood why she turns her nose up so high when she doesn’t even have a college degree herself. So baffling._

“Well, you don’t tell me anything anymore, so….” She trails off, expecting you to finish the sentence for her. _You don’t tell me anything anymore, so how can you fault me for my thoughts._ It’s an argument she’s been lording over your head for four years now, but she’d been the catalyst behind it all.

Luckily, you have experience in dealing her moods, so you do what you do best. You nod in pathetic compliance, and tell her exactly what she wants to hear without giving up the real precious bit of it, “It’s not Newark Community.”

—

You stand on your tiptoes to to survey the ballooning crowd, and your anxiety ratchets up to an eleven. You’re at the fringes, so it’d take you forever and a day to wait until you got to the booth, yet you feel hives start to burst at your neck with the mere idea of trying to push to the front yourself.

A set of hands circle around your waist out of the blue. You yelp in surprise before inhaling the familiar scent of Jungkook’s Calvin Klein cologne and hearing his amiable, “My babe! Are you waiting in line to vote for prom court?”

You lean back to smile at him for a second, and when his mouth dips to the proximity of yours, you reach to grasp his face and squish your cheek into his. “Came as soon as I heard the announcement, just like literally everyone else did. I’ll come back later—,”

“Come on,” he laughs, already clued into why you’re itching with discomfort where you’re standing. He knows you hate crowds, so he hugs you to his chest with one burly arm and uses the other to part the sea of people, opening up enough space to shimmy you through the gathering.

There are first cries of derision, as students are roughly shoved aside by your boyfriend. You rush to stop him before he makes a scene, “Jungkook, we can’t cut!”

But when your peers turn and see it’s the two of you that are barreling your way forward, it’s all transformed into hushed whispers of surprised awe, the typical sort of buzz that you hate follows you through these halls. _Oh my gosh, y/n and Jungkook are here, they’re here._ When you’re about two rows of people from the front, the next head of hair you push past is curly and blonde, and you grab Sana’s hand to drag her along beside you. _Ah, y/n, you’re going to look so pretty with that crown on this year!_ A random you don’t even know shouts all the way from the side hallway, and that starts the fracas up again.

“I wish I had a shot,” Sana grumbles, not upset at you but more the circumstances. “My mom won when she was in high school, too.”

You give her hand an extra squeeze at that. You’ve heard the story from your mother at least once a week since you won Prom Queen by accident as a junior last year, something that never happened before at Edison. _I get it, Rachael Minatozaki won prom queen when you were seniors, but your daughter won it as a junior, please shut up Mother_. _And_ _Sanawich, you have to know that i_ _f I had the opportunity, I’d transfer every last vote I know I’m about to get to you. I don’t want the spotlight, I don’t want any of it again. Last year was torture. But you’re stuck for now, because there really is no option to deny the nomination._

Your line of sight is bombarded with a huge, flashing neon display on the lobby TV. It’s in pink this year, with hundreds of twinkling gifs of stars and crowns littered over it. This is the board that’ll update at the end of every day with a live tally of votes for prom queen and king, like this is a national presidential election or something actually serious.

“Hi, y/n!” Miyeon, RM’s girlfriend and a tangential member of your social circle, chirps when she sees you. As senior class secretary, she’s in charge of everything prom, a duty you were more than willing to give up to her at the beginning of the year.

“What’s up, Mi!”

“Love your blouse! Vintage Gucci?” You’re glad you actually Googled the background of this blouse after you’d pulled it from the rack at Make a Wish’s, so that you can answer Miyeon with an affirmative head nod.“Knew it. Would you like to be the first to vote for prom court this year?”

“She’s always first in everything,” Jungkook brags, pressing a kiss to the juncture between your neck and shoulder. You feel an embarrassed blush settle high on your cheeks.

You push him off playfully to agree to Miyeon’s request, “May as well.” The form is already loaded onto one of the three computers they have set up on the table, with a design of cheery flowers and two empty spots to put in any names you wish to choose. You feel the continuing cascade of warm breath against your skin, and Jungkook blatantly still has his chin on your shoulder, screen in his clear line of sight. You lightly elbow him in the chest, flirty when you tease him, “Hey, you can’t look, this is a very secret ballot process!”

He sticks his tongue out at you as you shuffle around the corner of the table, angling yourself and the computer so that no one around you can see you filling it out. The first space, for prom queen, is one that you easily fill in, fingers having no problem typing out _Sana Minatozaki_. After that, you pause, contemplating how you want to fill in the remaining open space. Your mind is spelling out the characters that make up _Jungkook Jeon_ , but that is definitely not what your fingers type in and submit before you have the chance to decide otherwise.

“Thank you!” You smile brightly at Miyeon as you move the computer back into place, and you tap Jungkook on the arm before you tell him, “I’ll wait over there while you guys vote.”

You don’t want to be in the middle of the crowd that’s pushing forward with each second that passes. There’s a path of escape if you duck away from your boyfriend and his best friend as they conspire over how they’re going to fill out their ballots. The mass of people trails off into a line, there’s a bit more breathing room once you escape down the hallway. You have half a mind to head right to your next class without even waiting around, but you spot a familiar orange beanie, set on top of a filled out crown of black hair. You decide to stop.

“What’s up!” you greet the person like you’ve known them your whole life, and not like this is the first time you’ve actually spoken.

The freshman boy jumps half a foot into the air at your cheerful greeting, spinning around in a circle before he sees you standing there, “Wha—who… y/n?” Mark glances past you nervously, and towards either side of him, to confirm that you had, indeed, been addressing him.He sounds just like his brother when he stutters, “Y-you’re here, talking to me?”

You shrug, why would you not talk to him? You continue the conversation before he has a chance to run away, “You waiting in line to vote for prom court?”

“Yes, I’ll vote for you, I promise.” Mark’s black hair flaps against his forehead when he nods his head, so earnest in revealing that you will be his choice for his first prom court vote ever.

“I would honestly love it if you voted for anyone other than me,” you deadpan. When his eyes widen in confusion, you quickly hold out your hands and explain, “Joke.” _Too early to go there with a complete stranger, why did you even try_. You move on, recalling something Jaehyun had told you during practice, asking, “How was rap club the other day?”

Mark is again totally stunned that you know about one of his personal hobbies, and trips over his words, “Wha— um, it was great. We were working on our cyphers, and I have a bunch unfinished from when I was in the hospital so it was great to get back into it.”

You didn’t know a single thing about what an arduous medical journey he’d faced, beyond your basic understanding of leukemia, the subtle posts you’d see on Facebook, and the inevitable gossip bit that would come around. You’re not sure if he’s usually open about this kind of thing or what, but you appreciate that he’s given up a little morsel of information, for no other reason than to keep the conversation flowing.

You nod, impressed though you don’t really get what it’s about, “That’s really cool. I don’t know anything about rap.”

“Are you a classical music junkie like my brother? The ballet and stuff?”

“I guess, yeah.”

“Oh, right on?” Mark looks politely impressed, like he’s trying to come across more mature than he really is. “I didn’t know popular kids were into that.”

You wince, “I’m not pop—,”

In an ironic gesture that is a complete erasure of what you were trying to say, Jungkook, RM, Mingyu, Jennie, and Sana appear out of nowhere to collect you. Jungkook goes right for you first, lifting you by the waist as he whoops, “Just voted for you and me, babe! It should be in the bag this year.”

“At least you’ll get to be up there with her this year, dude,” RM pointedly reminds him, referencing the story Jungkook told you when you first started dating.

Normally, juniors were never on prom court, but you’d somehow bypassed that rule and ended up on stage right beside Wonho Kim, the hottest guy in the grade above you. From the moment you’d gone on stage in your lilac gown, Jungkook decided you were the one for him, and no longer wanted to be just friends. He’d asked you to the next dance in the fall, and well, that was history.

You’re hoisted over Jungkook’s shoulder as he strides down the hallway, and you laugh-call behind you as you go, “See you around, Mark!” You beat on your boyfriend’s back with your fists to get him to put you down, you’re probably flashing everyone the spandex under your skirt. He puts you down after a few seconds of knuckle-y barrage, deep laughter a honey note of fondness in your ears.

Jungkook tugs at your braid as the two of you linger behind the group of your friends, and he asks, “By the way, did you ask your parents if they were free to come to the lacrosse banquet? Dates are supposed to bring their parents, too.”

“When is that again, I don’t think I have it on my calendar.” A lie. You always have everything meticulously mapped out on your phone, to make sure you stay on track amidst the chaos. In fact, you’ve already dealt with this.

“It’s Friday, the playoff game is Saturday.”

You take a moment to pretend scroll through your calendar app, to scrunch your face up in disappointment and say, “My dad, uh, has a— work dinner that night, with the partners. I think my mom has to go with him.” Jungkook’s face falls slightly, but he’s under the impression that your parents are busy people, and that’s why you always go to hang at his house. He doesn’t push back on the matter.

Good, most of it is set, except for the one last reminder you’d had saved under _Jungkook banquet do not forget_. You turn back to the growing line of voters, wondering if you’ll be able to deal with it now, and like you predict, you can.

“Give me a sec,” you halt your conversation with Jungkook and unlace your fingers from his, to return to where you’d just come from. Now, beside the orange beanie is a matching circlet of onyx hair. You tap the shoulder of the puffy vest, and when Jaehyun turns you greet him with a wave, “Hey, piano man.”

He looks completely baffled as to why you’ve approached him in school, “Y/n?”

“I told you she talked to me!” Mark hisses, and Jaehyun immediately hisses back, “Shut up!”

You wait for the brotherly back and forth to dissipate before you ask the eldest, “Do you think there’s any chance we can switch from Friday to Sunday next week?” You have private rehearsals every weekday in preparation for your audition submission, but now that Jungkook’s event is coming up, you’re going to have to reschedule to make sure you stay on top of your game.

“Uh, um—,” Jaehyun casts a skittish glance over to his brother, unable to find the words of a response. You can’t help but wonder if he’s like this all the time, if it’s because of your presence, or if it’s because of your presence plus the fact that you’re in public.

“I have weekly doctor’s appointments, and they’re on Sundays,” Mark takes the plunge on behalf of his brother, recognizing that Jaehyun probably didn’t want to deny you. “But bro—,”

You feel terribly embarrassed that you’d even asked, and explain away your poor behavior, “I had no idea, I’m so sorry. It’s fine to keep it on Friday, I would never want to inconvenience you.” _Mark’s health obviously takes precedence over you, idiot. You could find any other pianist, use a recording, do anything other than take up Jaehyun’s precious time. Of course he’s the one who brings his brother to his appointments._

“Thanks, that would help a lot,” he murmurs, adjusting his glasses with his sleeve covered hand, then swiping the bangs out of his eyes.

“No worries, I”ll see you tonight,” you conclude affably, then shoot the pair of brothers a friendly smile as you turn on your heel and head back to where Jungkook has been waiting for you. Your exit is set to the tune of Mark’s fading, harsh whisper that you almost miss, _You should’ve said yes!_

Your boyfriend doesn’t look up from where he’s sending a flurry of text messages, he just asks, “What was that all about?”

You’re not sure if he’s paid attention to any of your conversation or who you were even talking to, you give him the basic facts, “Jaehyun, uh, plays the piano for the studio? We had this conversation the other day, remember?”

He briefly glances up to see the two boys together, and his face twists into an amused little grin at the sight, “Ohhhhhh okay. Nerd city.” And then he’s back to texting away, four or five messages sent immediately answered. Probably just Mingyu, they’re inseparable, sometimes even more so than he is with you.

“Anyways, you know I’m preparing my audition tape for the schools I applied to, and wanted to move things around for the banquet, but his brother’s doctors appointments are on Sunday.”

“Isn’t that what parents are for?”

You silently grit your teeth at his flippant comment. Mrs. Jeon does absolutely everything for Jungkook, is at every home game _and_ every away game, bakes for the team, and had even bought him that shiny silver Mercedes when his practice schedule got too hard for her to keep up with. Not everyone is that lucky.

You move right past that comment without even deigning it an answer, “Are you cool with stopping by the studio to pick me up on Friday instead of my house?” You really need to get the practice in. You’re almost at the deadline, if you cut a rehearsal now you’re going to get more and more nervous about not putting together a good audition video.

“Anything for you, babe,” Jungkook proclaims as he wraps you up into a hug, holding your face to his chest for a second. When you don’t immediately gaze up at him and smile, he adopts a tone of concern, “Hey, are you really worried about that? The dance program at UNC is probably way too easy for you.”

“Need it to be perfect,” you grumble. The comment provides no comfort but you cling to his waist anyways, thankful he’d tried at the very least. _Why is everyone assuming that I’m going to UNC with him? I’ve never given off that impression, ever._

“Kookie, let’s go!” Sana’s sweet call breaks through the embrace, and you peek to see her there, phone in hand, wearing an exasperated expression. “Physics?!”

Jungkook peers at you with his sparkly black eyes, so unbelievably handsome even in the fluorescent hallway lighting. You see his lips twitch with the desire to press a kiss right against your mouth in parting. But thankfully, they take a different path to your face, meandering around your borderline and dotting a note of fondness against your temple, then he goes to class. At least he still remembers that.

—

Jaehyun’s tongue goes between his teeth as he thinks, then he says, “I think if I hold this fermata a second longer, you’ll be able to do one more turn.”

You’ve been working on the solo for an hour, his obedient playing backing you up, but this is the first time he’s dared to speak up on a suggestion. You’ve been frustrated over this pique turn, step-over combo for the past ten minutes, and have made him play this snippet maybe fifteen times to get it right. He’s probably ready to say far worse to you than that.

“Hmm, you think?” You’ve been attempting to squeeze in three rotations at the tempo the music is usually played, and you’ve been falling every time because it’s just too fast. Did he catch that?

“Try it, prima donna,” he goads you on, nickname falling from his lips with ease. You’re not sure if he’s poking fun at your admittance that you like to give all your close friends a funny nickname, but he’s the first who’s actually tried it in return. You like it.

You nod at him as you prepare your stance on the floor, arms in the air, toes pointed. He plays the notes with a flourish, and first you hop-skip into a double pique turn. The music is usually supposed to play a trill of notes fast, but his fingers hold the melody into longing extension, and you manage to whip out three clean turns, and land primly on your knee, as you’ve been trying to do with no success.

You’re so happy you got it, you fall right to the ground by Jaehyun’s backpack.

He peeks down at you with a laugh already poised at his mouth, dimples flashing as he jokes, “Damn, not half bad for never seeing ballet before a day in my life, huh?” Not half bad is an understatement. You clearly see why he was chosen to be the lead pianist of the orchestra.

Now that he’s comfortable offering up suggestions, you don’t feel too awkward discussing them with him either,“I was thinking, could you do that second set of quarter notes in the beginning a bit quieter? It’s a floaty part of the choreography that’s supposed to convey how in love she is.” You get up to show him what you’re talking about, casting a love-struck image on your face as you assume the role of Giselle and run right to the corner to stand en pointe. You turn back to him and explain, “If you hit the main notes super strongly, it gives it a different energy.” You don’t know if that’s good enough information for him to understand what you mean.

Jaehyun blinks himself out of a momentary daze, then flips to the page of music that details what you’d been talking about, “Like this?” He gets your poorly explained idea on the first try, fingers coaxing the notes out in a tender little croon.

“Damn, Columbia knew what they were doing, picking you,” you say before you realize what an over-the-top kind of compliment that is, and also what it gives away.

His head whips your way so fast it’s almost blinding, “What? How’d you know.”

“You think I don’t LinkedIn stalk every private pianist that’s hired to help me?” You don’t know where the heck that coy comment comes from, nor the raise of your eyebrow. He pushes up his glasses with a sweater paw in shyness, and you explain the actual reason, what you’d seen after collapsing only seconds ago,“You have the blue Columbia button on your bag, piano man. And every lead pianist in the orchestra has gone to either Columbia-Juilliard or Berklee the past five years.”

_I’m actually kind of jealous, you know. I’d thought about going to a performing arts school like Juilliard, but in my efforts to stick it to the man, went for the loftiest goal instead. Now I'm not even sure if I'll be able to get in._

His foot nudges the bag out of the way, hiding the blue Columbia logo out of your view, and he grumbles, “That’s not fair, you don’t have a button on your bag. And I don’t know where ballerinas go to college.” Ah, he’s trying his best to be friendly and open about getting to know you as a person, but it’s not his fault you’re not transparent about this with even your close friends. He’s simply not at the tier of your life where you’d give him anything he’s interested in.

You do think that you have to make sure this conversation isn’t so one sided, you ask, “Have you always wanted to go there?”

He shrugs, kind of embarrassed he has to talk about himself, “I don’t know. I’ve been playing piano since I was three, didn’t take long to decide after that I wanted to play in a professional symphony one day. Juilliard made sense, I just got lucky I had good enough grades to get into the dual degree program at Columbia too.”

Huh, you suppose you may be two sides to the same coin after all.

“Seriously, you’re not going to tell me at all?” He prods, done with being the center of attention. “Not a hint?”

“Not a hint,” you trill teasingly, before you get back into place to try the set of steps one more time. “Can you play it the exact same way, please?”

Jaehyun does as he’s asked, plucking out the notes carefully, so they come out in a melange of classical gorgeousness, and it finally feels like you’re dancing along to music that matches your steps. You hold up a hand to stop the rehearsal after one quick run through, satisfied with the changes you’ve made together, “That’s so much better.”

“Told you,” he preens, a shade of self-satisfaction that is unexpected, but he somehow wears well. “Think it’s ready to film?”

“Hey, hey, babe!”

At the sound of a knock on the glass door with the cheerful call, you spot Jungkook strolling into the dance studio, effortlessly put together in his slate grey suit, hair gelled back from his forehead. You glance at the clock — it’s still six-fifty, and to make it in time you’d have to leave by seven-ten at the latest. You didn’t anticipate your boyfriend would actually come inside to pick you up, that’s what you say, “I thought I told you you could wait in the car.”

“Thought I’d come to see the goddess in action,” Jungkook flirts, ending with a wink as he flops down into a chair closest to the door.

Your nose wrinkles with affection, and you murmur, “You’re being funny.” He really is so cute, always ready with a sly line you can appreciate, going out of his way to make you happy. You lean over the piano to catch Jaehyun’s attention and ask, “Hey, is it cool if he hangs? We have to go to the lacrosse banquet right after.”

Jaehyun shrugs. “Sure.”

There’s a newfound awkward chill in the previously cozy studio space, and you want to bridge the gap between the two boys who are with you right now. You doubt they’ve ever interacted, and you can’t say you trust Jungkook to remember what you’ve now discussed several times. You do the introductions yourself, “Jungkook, this is Jaehyun. Jaehyun, this is Jungkook.”

“Hey, man,” Jaehyun greets his classmate politely.

Jungkook appears totally uninterested at the pianist’s presence, barely looking up to manage a meager, “Sup.”

“I need ten minutes, and then I’ll change and we can go. Sound okay?”

“Whatever you need, babe,” Jungkook waves you off as he props his leg up on the chair next to his and resumes texting away, fingers flying at a mile a minute. He claimed he was here to watch you in action, but he seems way more preoccupied by his messages with Mingyu. Not that you really mind, you don’t need more commentary when you’re already in your own head about it.

“Okay, I’ll go from the top,” Jaehyun informs you once you’re in place in the corner, shaking your hands to remove the nerves that have suddenly built up.

Now that your phone is propped up on the wall behind you, filming the whole thing though the mirror, you feel like the pressure’s on. You force yourself to get in the mindset of Giselle, something that should be easy for you. How hard could it be, you’re both teenage girls in love. Or, as close to love as you possibly can be as an eighteen year old in a relatively fresh relationship. You have to show the dance department you’re not just a wunderkind, you have the depth and nuance to play lead roles in story ballets, that you understand acting and imbuing emotion in your movements beyond an amateur level.

You make it through the whole solo without a technical blunder, but you don’t feel like it was your best, even with Jaehyun playing at his. Case in point, you run to the video and the first thing you nitpick at isn’t anything important,“I’m sorry to be picky, but can you slow the introduction down just a little bit more, I really need to get my leg up as high as possible.”

You really want your arabesque to dip to a one hundred and eighty degree extension behind your head to show off the length of your legs and your technique. If Jaehyun plays it that fast, you can’t get your leg all the way up there.

“Sure, how about this?” He slows the tempo down into a lazy larghetto, and you take a tentative try at the step you hadn’t been pleased about. You don’t do it all the way full out, but still are pleased to find that the change works to your advantage.

You set the phone back up, satisfied for now, “Perfect, let me try again.”

You pick up the fluttery, lilac material of your practice skirt, and as soon as he begins playing, lose yourself in the steps more than you had the first time around. You step into a graceful arabesque, and with Jaehyun’s musical support, you bend over in a perfect penché, skirt moving in an accentuating arc as you step through, feeling quite accomplished. You turn, and before you can even attempt the other side your ankle gives way, and you take a particularly rude fall to the floor, landing right on your butt.

Jungkook bursts into a raucous round of laughter, apparently looking up at the perfect moment to catch that blunder. Jaehyun is flustered at the piano, fingers tremulous over the keys, unsure of what to do as your boyfriend laughs even harder, “T-that was so funny hahahaha.”

“Thanks,” you mutter, rubbing your ankle for a second to confirm you hadn’t actually damaged it.

“You okay?” Jaehyun asks quietly, and you manage a curt nod his direction. “Want to do it again? I can start when you’re ready.”

 _Body is resisting, I can already feel it. My mood is soured even further, if I try to push it things are going to unwind really fast_. You shake your head, “I think we should just call it a night. I think I’m nervous because it’s getting late, so I’ll just go get changed.”

You grab your bag and run to the bathroom, leaving behind a confused Jaehyun and a still amused Jungkook. As you strip off your leotard and tights you can’t help but feel incredibly frustrated, beyond irked now that you have this commitment. You get that the laughter was probably instinctual — as a matter of fact, you and Sana always laugh at each other when you mess up in class. But you needed this to go well tonight to feel confident enough to submit the tape to your college choices by the end of next week. You didn’t want to worry about it while AP test preparation took precedence. Now, you’re going to have to add an extra set of rehearsals, which is a waste of time for both you and Jaehyun.

You come back to the room not five minutes later to gather up the rest of your things, and you catch a clunky, accidental jolt of the piano keys when you step inside.You glance up to see Jaehyun awkwardly rubbing his hand from where he’s clearly just stumbled against the piano by accident, and through the mirror you see Jungkook ogling you with no reserve. You don’t get it, you still have your hair up in the same bun, too lazy to take it down or get your sweat everywhere. The garment is nothing special, one you didn’t buy secondhand so it’s definitely not designer — just a navy blue bodycon dress with one shoulder strap, a pair of nude heels. Perfectly acceptable, nothing of note.

Jungkook saunters over to rub a hand over your waist and whisper, “You’re so fucking hot, babe.” He must be distracted out of his mind, because with no hesitation, he goes in for a full kiss.

You turn your head so his lips land on your cheek and disguise it under the action of gesturing to Jaehyun in farewell, “Sorry, I’ll make sure you get paid in full. Have a great night!”

Jaehyun doesn’t say anything, he blankly waves and turns back to the piano, resting his forehead in his hands like he’s stressed out beyond belief.

Jungkook takes your hand but doesn’t further offer to take any of the three bags you’re currently shouldering on one arm. He’s too engrossed in finishing off whatever texting plans he must have with Mingyu for the banquet tonight, though he has enough presence of mind to make a comment on Jaehyun, “He is such a dweeb. It’s like he’s never seen a hot girl before.”

_Is that what he thinks that was? That Jaehyun had some kind of comical reaction to seeing me all dressed up and wasn’t just so tired he’d slumped against the piano keys in a moment of reprieve? That’s caveman think._

“I’m sure it’s not like that,” you dismiss your boyfriend’s idea.

Jungkook smirks at his screen, nodding like he has the perfect sense of what was going on in the other boy’s head, “Oh, it’s definitely like that.”

Which you also immediately dismiss, because Jungkook and Jaehyun don’t seem to operate on the same plane of consciousness. You’ve seen how Jungkook and his buddies publicly swoon over the models they follow on Instagram, an extrapolation of his personal feelings about you in the moment. You can’t bicker back and forth with him anymore though, because you see the reason why he’d come into the studio to retrieve you. He hadn’t wanted to be alone in the car with his parents, and you don’t blame him. Remember Mrs. Jeon going to all his games? Say it with me, helicopter parent!

You compose yourself into propriety, the way you’ve always acted around them since you met them at homecoming. “Hi Mr. Jeon, Mrs. Jeon. Good to see you again.”

“You as well honey,” she greets you brightly, always pleased by your appearance and manners. “Are you sure your parents won’t be able to make it?”

 _Make sure you sell it, look sad right now!_ “Ah, no, they had a previous commitment at my father’s office. They regret that they couldn’t make it.” You let the dissatisfaction wash away into a bright compliment to your boyfriend that his parents both love, “But they said they were super proud of you, big boy.”

Mrs. Jeon goes on and on about how both of your families have to get together for a dinner sometimes, and you do the requisite accepting, then denying, then excuse making. Then, for the rest of the night, you’re caught up in two things: first is the requisite guilt, as you think of the voicemail you left on your mother’s phone earlier in the day, _Hello. Madame Kang requested that I stay late and work on some finishing touches for my audition film at the studio. I will not be back until past eleven, but I do not have any homework assignments or tests tomorrow. I can also get dinner on my own. Thanks._

And the second? Well. You cannot stop thinking about how your boyfriend assumed the pianist at your ballet studio finds you hot. Like, that's not what's going on here at all.

**tbc.**

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> WOOOHOOOOOOO THE ACTUAL START OF IT ALL!!!!!!!!!!!!!!! im so pumped when i went back and started editing this first section i was swooning the whole time over how CUTE it was compared to the ANGSTY part im currently writing. 
> 
> hope you enjoyed! thank u for reading! xo


	3. en croix: in the shape of a cross

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Your breath gets marooned on the island of your throat as there’s a moment of paused stillness, just the two of you at the table with mutual understanding of a shared struggle.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> here's the scene from giselle they talk about (timestamp 8:38 if it doesn't work!): youtu.be/cqOm922Fhx8?t=519

Your leg bounces idly as you check your bus app, groaning when you see the nearest one is still ten minutes away. Eunhyuk, your private coach from Newark Ballet that instructs you once a week, is definitely going to give it to you good if you’re late _again_ , two times this close to one another is definitely not you.

“Prima donna!” At the familiar call, you see Jaehyun waving while he strolls towards the bus stop from his car. “Are you heading to ballet for the day?”

You nod. “Got a private in thirty minutes, waiting for the bus. You go off campus for lunch?”

“Had to pick up my brother from kindergarten and take him to daycare,” he tells you. You’re interested by this, because you didn’t realize he had a brother that young, let alone that he actually had to leave school to go and shuttle around. You’re prepared to ask after more details, when his attention is caught by something behind you, “Wait, is that my name on the Prom King tally? One vote?”

You swivel to see the large screen that’s been displayed outside the school since voting began, a kind of silly tradition the seniors liked to do every year. Surely enough, at the very, very bottom of the handful of candidates that have been voted for, is his name, _Jaehyun Jung_ , and the tally of a solitary vote beside it.

You clam up for a second, only one second. You force yourself to wash it away and joke with him, amused, “Did you vote for yourself?”

“No!” he exclaims, shaking his head at rapid fire pace to ensure that you understand he wouldn’t do something so cringe. “Who the hell voted for me, then?”

Your concentration on the matter at hand is broken by the double ping of your phone. The first is your monthly phone bill reminder come a bit too early, that you’ve run out of data with three weeks left. You’re going to have to turn off all your apps to not get a scolding from your mother for the extra fee. But the second, and the one that causes a full glug of cold dread to spiral into your heart, has a preview like this,

 _Admissions decisions now posted - P…_ and that’s all you can see before you start to panic.

 _Oh no, oh no, how could I have forgotten that decisions were coming out today, I’ve had this marked in my calendar since applying. I’ve been so busy with dance and studying and absolutely everything else that this had just slipped to the wayside._ No, no, no, if you check now, you face the wrath of your mom for burning data into a late fee. But you don’t think you can wait until you get home to your wifi, since the studio has always had poor connection. That’s going to be nine hours without knowing, what do you do, what do you do.

“Can you take me to McDonald’s?” you blurt, hoping that Jaehyun is somehow still listening.

His brow furrows in confusion at the strange ask, thumb idly swinging back to the building, “Lunch is about to end. I have class. Aren’t you going to the studio anyways?”

“I’ll buy you a McFlurry?” You have no idea if he can be tempted by dessert, but you have to try. Otherwise you’re going to run there yourself right now, traffic on the highway be damned.

“Are you sure you should be eating before practice? You told me you almost threw up one time you ate too much,” Jaehyun recalls a story you’d told him during one of your earlier practices, but you have no capacity to find that a nice touch right now.

“Yes or no?” you ask, sharp and demanding.

Jaehyun doesn’t take long to cave, dropping his head in acceptance that he’ll get some kind of punishment for skipping class, “Okay fine, let’s go.”

He has a really, really beat up old Honda, but it thankfully doesn’t stall out when he turns the engine on. Your knee trembles out an earthquake of worry right into the interior of the car, so opposite of your usually cool demeanor. It’s so, so hot in here, you’re itchy and uncomfortable and your thumb is daring you to open the email, just do it—,

“Are you doing alright?” Jaehyun’s voice booms out of nowhere, over the CD of Chopin that’s been playing in the background. “I know I still don’t really…. know you? But you’re acting kind of weird.”

You feel your stomach roll with queasiness, and you know that you absolutely cannot throw up in Jaehyun’s car, the only car you know his family has. But if he keeps talking, that’s exactly what you’re going to do. You press a hand right over your mouth, trying to staunch the nausea, and your command comes out muffled, but still harsh, “I’ve no right to ask you for this many favors but please. Shut up!”

He does as he’s told for the entire drive over.

Jaehyun doesn’t have the car all the way in park before you’re leaping out of the door and calling behind you, unsure if he hears, “I’m going to the bathroom.”

You sprint into the McDonald’s and right into the lone open stall in the back of the women’s restroom. You hope that no one comes in after you, because you may be in here for a long time, depending on what the anticipated results are. You have to grip on the railing beside you, sanitation be damned, as you pull out your phone and connect to the McDonald’s wifi, the reason why you’d urgently requested to come here. You keep your eyes half-closed, not willing to read the text in full, and you click the link at the bottom of the email. The page refreshes, and the website reloads with a short paragraph of text, complete with the university seal positioned at the very top. _Agh, agh, how am I going to do this, I don’t want to open my eyes and have the words come into focus, I’m too scared, I’m terrified—,_ _g_ _et over yourself y/n, you gigantic coward!_

You open your eyes.

> **Dear y/n,**
> 
> **Congratulations! I am thoroughly pleased to offer you admission into Princeton University’s Class of 2024.**

You almost drop your phone right into the toilet.

> **There were many applications sent in for the Class of 2024, and yours was one of the standouts our admissions committee was pleased to review. You have accomplished much in your academic and personal life, and I am confident that you will flourish here at Princeton. Please keep an eye out for an acceptance packet that will be coming in the mail soon. We look forward to seeing you on campus! Goooo Tigers!**

  
Your legs give out underneath you, you sit right on the toilet seat with your jeans still on, heart racing with abandon in your chest. This can’t be real. You glance down to your screen and the first line still says _Congratulations!_ This isn’t a prank, this is real. You actually got into your first choice. You got into Princeton, all on your own. You scream involuntarily, excited, stunned, dumbfounded all at once, and someone in the stall next to you hits their head in surprise and groans. You’re going to Princeton, you’re going to arguably the best college in the US, you are. Little old you.

You’re beaming from ear to ear when you exit the bathroom, phone - acceptance still open on the screen - cradled into your chest like it’s a precious little baby you want to keep safe forever. You’re walking on clouds, accompanied by an angel choir, Michelle Obama herself is going to appear out of nowhere and congratulate you on attending her alma mater. You could walk all the way across town to the studio and you’re sure you won’t feel tired once.

“You good?”

“Huh?” Your mouth blabs at the sudden intrusion, glancing around to find the source of the noise and finding Jaehyun sitting in booth next to where you’re standing. You’d totally forgotten, in your haze, that he was the one who drove you here and ended up waiting around. You’d offered up payment for him to do so, “Oh, yeah, yeah. What do you get in yours usually?”

He’s a bit taken aback by your joyful tone, eyebrow shooting up behind the frame of his glasses as he confusedly answers, “M&M’s?”

“Great, I’ll order right now.”

You chatter away to the server at the register, about how great the weather is for April and how you like her nail polish, and even give her the lone extra five dollar bill you have as a personal tip. Jaehyun’s jaw drops as you present him with _two_ McFlurry’s, one Oreo and one M&M, just in case he wanted both. Who cares?! “Here you go, piano man, I’ll see you later tonight!” You call over your shoulder as you go skipping, literally skipping, out of the restaurant, leaving a baffled Jaehyun behind with his two desserts. You have happy tears in your eyes and the wind in your hair as you skip down the sidewalk to the nearest bus stop, and the energy of the universe collides with you perfectly as a bus rolls up just as you sit down on the bench to wait.

The front desk ladies giggle when you wave exuberantly to them on your way into the studio, and Eunhyuk doesn’t even comment on the fact that you’re late, only ribs a little on your newfound good mood. They ask after it, _oh, did something happen with Jungkook,_ and _I wonder if someone went on a shopping spree this weekend_? But no one gets that information. Your happiness is just for you right now.

You thought the novelty would fade as the day went on, but apparently it doesn’t, because Seulgi’s jaw drops when you greet her with a cheerful, “Madame Kang, looking lovely today! Love your hair pin!” Jaehyun’s already at the piano, warming up, and you wave quite happily to him as well, “Hey! Good to see you!”

Sana’s waiting at the barre, the usual spot saved for you, and she watches the boy wave to you in return. Her eyes narrow at watching the interaction, puzzled by it. “You’re… friends with Jaehyun?”

You’re too busy staring at the pleased flush of your face in the mirror to understand what she’s asking, “Huh?”

“You waved, like he was me.”

“Sanawich, are you jealous? Hiiiiii, cutie. Did you have a good day?”

Your best friend is attuned enough to your general demeanor to catch on that you’re having an unusual, spectacularly great time today. She pushes a pin into your bun so it doesn’t fall out, then laughs, “I did, seems like you’re having an even better one. You stay late with Jungkook or something?”The end of her sentence trails off into quietness, like she’s almost nervous to ask, but you don’t pay much heed to it.

 _Ladies, this isn’t gossip city!_ Seulgi reminds you as she heads to the front of the room to begin giving out her plié combination, and you quickly shut your mouth. You don’t want to tell Sana about Princeton yet. She’s the closest to you but probably shouldn’t be the first to hear about it. You deny her theory that your mood is a result of your boyfriend next, “No, I had a private with Eunhyuk.”

“Broke out the fancy Yumiko for that, huh?” She glances down to the royal blue leotard you’re wearing, one of the highest of high end brands available. This was passed down to you from Yoona, one of the studio’s old legends that had gone off to dance with LA Ballet. You thought Sana remembered when you squealed about it together, but maybe not. Better for you, either way.

Class passes in a whirl of excitement. You’re sure this is just some kind of placebo effect from your acceptance letter but you swear you’ve never danced better. Your leg extension is the highest it’s ever been, your pirouettes are all landed perfectly, and you’re possessed with enough power in your jumps that Seulgi actually asks you to jump with the boys so you don’t overtake the other girls. By the time you get to the fouetté practice at the end, you’re so filled with adrenaline that Jaehyun actually has to keep playing for sixty-four counts, in order for you to get a double set of thirty-two in.

He’s been clued into your erratic behavior since you’d requested he drive to McDonald’s. So, he’s bursting with curiosity to the point that he actually approaches you as you’re taking your shoes off, sitting next to you on the floor and asking, “What was that all about today?”

You feign innocence, “What was what?”

“The McDonald’s? And the freaky eyes? General merriment?” Jaehyun prods, with more than enough amusement in his voice, a hidden, teasing side to him you enjoy the most when it comes creeping out.

“Nothing. But I really have to finish that tape sometime soon.” You’re reminded in your denial that the Princeton performing arts department’s deadline is a week from today. You need to have a flawless video prepared now that it’s confirmed where you’re attending, and you need at least two nights for editing.

“I can squeeze you in tomorrow, maybe,” Jaehyun says, thinking out loud. Only for you to realize he’s making a show of things when he tacks on a silly, “Possibly. Perhaps.”

“I’ll pay you myself,” you offer, because you know that you’ll have to schedule the session without the studio providing him his compensation.

“Don’t worry about it, prima donna. Columbia thinks I need the practice. See you tomorrow.” Jaehyun’s wry comment says what he doesn’t, that he’ll do this as a favor for you and expect nothing else in return.

You really think about it more than you probably should on the bus ride home.

In fact, you’re still thinking about Jaehyun’s parting comment to the point that you almost ignore your mom’s question when you're inside, “How was your day?”

“Good, psych test went well. I’m in the lead for prom queen still. Nothing else of note,” you respond blandly, wanting to go to your office and freak out on your own, a moment of peace you haven’t had since the bathroom at McDonald’s. You'll definitely bypass telling her the news, too, not ready for her to know yet.

“Speaking of prom, are you still doing pictures at Sana’s house?”

“Yes, I’m going to Jungkook’s first, and then over.”

“Great, don’t forget your crown from last year.” No, you’ve been dreading this. You can’t believe your mom is about to ruin your day in one fell swoop. You go up two of the steps so you can see her face, the way she’s fiercely determined to get you to do this for her.

“Mother.”

Your mother won’t miss the chance to rub your probable double victory in Sana’s mother’s face, a continuation of their beef that she’s using you as a pawn for. Sana never had a problem that you won, because a junior winning had been such a fluke at the time. She doesn’t seem to be bothered about it this year either. At your warning, she sets down her magazine to enforce her will, “No, she always brings up how she won when we were in high school, I get to brag this time.”

_I’m not going to show up to prom photos with my prom queen crown from last year, like a conceited little stuck up weasel. But I can’t tell you that. I’ll just have to make sure to conveniently lose the sparkling accessory before you can go looking for it. By lose, I mean toss in the trash._

“Okay,” you accept anyways. “Goodnight, mom.”

—

Sana twirls in front of the mirror for the thousandth time, surveying her fairy-like appearance as the skirt of her prom dress flutters around her legs. The pastel pink goes beautifully with her long blonde hair, all together she looks like cotton candy perfection, the kind of put together you’d always dreamed to be. You give her a thumbs up from where you’re lying on the blue comforter in your room, but she does not appear satisfied with it. She starts putting her hair up in a bun, wanting to figure out if an updo will help or hurt the look.

You idly scroll through Instagram, uninterested in trying your dress on even though you’d brought it out of the closet specifically for a fashion show. Your mom had let you and Sana off the hook from weekly Bible study so you could spend time preparing for prom. You know she’s only done this with the hope you’ll have another moment to lord your victory over your best friend's head. Typical.

You text Jungkook to remind him to pick up his suit from the dry cleaners, and then you ask Sana out of curiosity, “Tell me again why you’re so adamant on not having a date?”

“It’s a new era of feminism, y/n,” she preaches as she adds on a diamond necklace, finally gathering some satisfaction at the look. “I don’t need male validation or a crown to feel like a queen at my own prom.” She emboldens herself in the mirror as she says the words. You feel bad that this is what she has to tell herself knowing that she has no shot of winning. You’ve been ahead in the polls since the first day, and unless there’s some kind of last minute landslide, you’re probably going to win again. You feel worse when she tacks on, “But I told my mom what I was doing and she wondered why I couldn’t just get a date like you.”

You hate that you’re always the comparison point for her, that somehow you’re a catalyst to your friend’s struggle without wanting to be. She’s your best friend, so you have to support her, “Love it, girl. Almost wish I was doing it myself.”

“Please,” she huffs, more in amusement than anger, “you and Jungkook are going to look so good up there.”

You figure you have to warn her. You’re not sure if she knows this is a possibility and would never want her to feel embarrassed on your behalf. You sit up, face all seriousness, and you give it to Sana gently, “Just a heads up, Mother brought up me bringing my crown from last year over for pictures. I’m going to try to get rid of it, but maybe warn your mom first? I don’t know what to do.”

She has been privy to your mothers’ paradoxical tension-filled friendship throughout the years, your mother wanting to get her jabs in and Sana’s mom trying to rise above it, yet always caving and snapping back. Yet, they’re always the first to invite the other to brunch, or to get their nails done, or do a mother-daughter day at the spa that you always pay for yourself.

“I don’t understand why they hate each other but also hang out with each other more than anything,” Sana vocalizes your inner thoughts as expected, with a savage eye roll indicating she’s less than pleased the adults here aren’t acting as such.

“Let’s hope we never turn into that!” you sarcastically remind her, because a life without Sana would be super empty. You’re not nervous about next year anymore. You’ll both still be in New Jersey and have every opportunity to see each other whenever you wanted. Your other top choice was Stanford, and you weren’t sure how being across the country would’ve felt. Good to know you won’t have to find out what not having Sana in your life is like.

“By God’s grace,” she chimes in sweetly, ever faithful to her beliefs. “You have to go any time soon?”

“No, I have a private and then my audition portfolio final filming.”

Sana’s mouth purses as she contemplates your packed schedule, then she pronounces, “I really think I should start privates when I go to Rutgers. I feel like the dancing part of being a triple threat is the only thing I need some slight improvements in.”

She has a beautifully saccharine voice, can act her little butt off in every shade of dramatic emotion. But from an objective point, she’s right - she’s not the strongest in dance, though she’s not that bad. She doesn’t do the ballet performances with you, or have private lessons, or take more than two classes a week. Really, the only reason she’s in your level is because her mother had paid a bit extra to bump her up from intermediate to advanced, a story you heard endlessly from your mom for weeks after it happened. But it’s no matter, with a little bit more personal help, she’ll be as good as you in no time.

“You’re going to be the best Broadway star ever,” you sigh, always of the mind to gas your best friend up and get her to stop worrying about her future career. She’ll make it, you know it.

“We’re absolutely going to tear up New York City when we’re done with college, don’t you think? I can't wait until we live in the same house!” she exclaims, knowing that was always your goal, to live in the big city with one another after graduation. “It would help if we went together…” _I'm not sure what going together has anything to do with our success rate, but we'll be in each other's lives one way or another, I'm sure of it. That's what a best friend is._

Your phone starts ringing, the coda from _Le Corsaire_ barreling into the room, and you stop the conversation to answer, “Hello?”

“H-hey, um. It’s Jaehyun,” he stutters, typical nerves shining through, before he explains how he has your digits out of nowhere, “I got your number from the dance studio.”

You mouth at Sana, _it’s my coach,_ because you don’t want her to eavesdrop. You take it a step further to actually leave your room and continue the conversation in the hallway, “Hey, is everything okay?”

“Yes,” he answers right away, before you catch his underhanded curse of _shit,_ and then he corrects his response, “I mean yes, but no. Momma got pulled in for an extra shift at Punchbowl so I’m stuck babysitting the peanuts. I can’t make it in tonight.”

Beyond the mention of him calling his younger siblings _the peanuts_ making your heart swell a size, you are touched by his dedication to his family, a quality you've not been able to muster up for yourself. Of course it’s no big deal to skip your plans today, you tell him that, “Oh, that’s totally fine. Don’t worry about it at all, do what you need to do.”

Jaehyun pauses, and you think he’s about to end the call. But his voice gets so shy, a decibel quieter than he ever talks at, and he offers up the subtle suggestion, “I do have a small keyboard at home, though, if you. You know. Need the practice. And I’m making spaghetti.”

 _Hm,_ you think. _Cute._

You certainly can’t leap at the idea, that’s definitely inappropriate. But you don’t want to say no. You’re careful at first, phrasing casual but understandable, “I think I could skip the practice today.” He’s about to concede defeat, thinking you’re going to deny him, and then you choose to add on, “But do the peanuts like garlic bread?”

You can practically hear his smile through the phone. “They love it.”

Turns out, Jaehyun lives in a tiny brown house covered in ivy, in the middle of a nondescript neighborhood by the Quik Mart where you do all your shopping. It’s such a carbon copy of your house that you almost walk towards the wrong side of the driveway instead of heading for the front door, the only difference being that they don’t have a garage. You grab the load of grocery bags you’d carried on your walk over — unsure of what kind of garlic bread his siblings actually liked, you’d bought practically every one available. You hope they have room in their fridge.

It takes a full minute from the time you ring the doorbell until it opens, Jaehyun’s very flushed, flustered face appearing through the crack in the wood. He’s got his mother’s frilly pink apron tied around his torso, splattered with red stains of tomato sauce, and you giggle when you see it on his face and glasses too. You discreetly point it out, “Hi. Pasta sauce on your chin.”

“Oops.” His cheeks go as tomato-y as the ingredient, and he hastily wipes it off with the sleeve of his black sweatshirt, way more casual than what he usually wears to school. You’re taking your shoes off in the tiny entryway when he hollers into the house, “Get in here!”

That sets off a frenzy of youthful excitement, and the scuffle of little feet. You walk further into the cozy home - decorated neatly with nothing but some old furniture and literally dozens of framed family portraits - and realize that it is identical to your home in outside structure only. Here, inside, where there’s a picture of a woman with five boys sitting in her lap, it actually feels like its inhabitants are loved.

You look down and there’s a pair of young boys eagerly staring up at you. Dressed in matching Spiderman sweaters, one has a head of brown hair and bright, black eyes, while the other has dark hair just like Mark, and cute little snaggletooth.

“Jaemin Na and Renjun Na,” Jaehyun introduces, ruffling the hair of the one closest to him, “fraternal twins and identical troublemakers. Peanuts, this is y/n.”

“Can I just call you Mary Jane?" The one on the left, Jaemin, babbles, gregarious and friendly, having no problem speaking to you directly. “Do you need saving?”

“You can call me anything you want,” you accept, not sure what the standard protocol of interacting with a kid is but certainly not wanting to deny him. “And I’m okay, but if I’m in trouble, I’ll definitely tell you.”

“Say something, Rennie,” Jaemin whispers to Renjun, who’s been silent and shy this whole time. He gives you a wave, that’s it, which annoys Jaemin to the point that he elbows his twin in the side. That earns him a stern glare from his oldest brother.

“Jaemin, remember what I said?” Jaehyun warns him, and the outgoing twin stops his bothering of the quieter twin. He reaches over the couch to ruffle a head of curly brown hair, the remaining sibling enraptured by the TV playing Power Rangers, “And this is Jisung, our baby.” There’s no audible response, so Jaehyun leans fully over the seat to stick his face in his brother’s and encourage him, “Say hi, Jiji.”

A pair of eyes peek up over the brown couch, followed by a warbled, barely audible, “Hi.”

Agh, agh, so much cuteness. You wiggle your fingers at him and adopt your baby voice even though you know he’s at least five, “Hi, cutie.” There’s only four of them, so you look around the kitchen for the missing piece, asking, “Where’s Mark?”

Jaehyun rolls his eyes and his tone has a sharp bite that doesn’t compute with how close they seem, “Off being a sullen teenager who doesn’t want to listen to me.” He barks up the stairs, “Mark! Mark Lee, dinner!”

A door in the upstairs alcove bursts open, flooding the house with explicitly loud, banging rap, followed by Mark’s furious yell, “I told you to leave me the fu—,”

“Mark!” Jaehyun warns his brother, knowing exactly what kid-unfriendly word was about to come out of his mouth.

He bounds down the stairs in a grungy sweatsuit that looks like he’s tie-dyed himself, to bite out the censored version to his brother’s face, “Fudge alone—,” His personality does a complete one eighty when he sees you there, nuggety face brightening up, “y/n!”

You turn your face so Jaehyun won’t see when you wink at Mark, but use a stern tone the eldest brother would approve of, “Surprised you could hear us over that Tupac, hmm?” After Mark had told you about his out of school hobby, you’d searched up some cyphers out of curiosity, and by coincidence had remembered the one that’s playing right now.

Mark juts his chin out towards his brother and quips, “I thought you were a classical music nerd like that one.”

“I know how to work Google,” you say with an easy laugh, soothing the tension that builds when Jaehyun grits his teeth at the rude comment. “You can tell me more over dinner.”

“Grab a plate so we can say grace, everyone. Mark, help Jisung please,” Jaehyun orders, the rest of their family knowing their roles to fill. The twins start to set the table while Jisung shuffles over from the couch, tiny mouse face so, so, so cute when you finally see all of it.

As you start to fill out six cups with water from the tap, you quietly ask, “You go to church?” You haven’t had dinner together with your parents in maybe a year, not even last Thanksgiving, but you know your mom still prays before every time she eats. You didn’t know your lives intersected in this kind of way.

“Yeah, it’s Momma’s thing,” Jaehyun answers under his breath, “especially for the babies.”

“Do you go to the Protestant one on the corner? That’s where my parents go.”

He catches your eye across the kitchen counter, and his silent mouthing tells you to shut up, _Not a thing to talk about at dinner._ Interesting, interesting, he has no problem making sure his siblings pray before they have a meal together, but seems to hold a level of trepidation around the practice himself that you can pick up on. He helps you carry the glasses of water over to the tiny table, and your chair is sandwiched in between Renjun and Jisung’s.

“God is great, God is good, let us thank him for our food.”

It’s Jaehyun’s deep baritone, plus the three wobbly, innocent voices, that recite out the sweet hymn. It’s very easy for you to pick out that Mark doesn’t say anything - holding his brothers’ hands, but keeping his mouth shut. You don’t really care to say it either, but something about sitting there motionless feels weird, so you mouth along with no sound until the end of the prayer. When you go to release both hands to dig into the plate of spaghetti that actually smells appetizing, you’re stopped by something. Jisung’s there, stabbing at a meatball with his plastic kids fork, but his other fingers are firmly entrenched into your right hand, preventing you from picking up your own utensil. Shaking him off would probably make the kid cry, but you’re kind of hungry, what are you supposed to do here?

Jaehyun glances over from where he’s cutting a meatball for Jaemin and he reminds his baby brother in a tender voice, “Ji, we don’t grab, remember.”

The youngest’s lip wobbles, like the last thing in the world he wants to do is let go of your hand. You just tighten your fingers around his hold and use your left hand to pick up the fork and begin eating. After you’ve savored a few bites of the dish that is surprisingly good for having been cooked by a teenager, you turn to the shy boy next to you and ask, “So, what grade are you superheroes in?”

You shoot Renjun your kindest look, to tell him that it’s okay for him to speak if he wants, so he carefully holds up four fingers and states, “Fourth grade.” Only to be overpowered by Jaemin yelling, “Fifth grade in the fall!” To which he retorts back, a bit louder, “We’re in fourth!”, butting heads with his brother’s reply, “Fifth grade is cooler!”

Jaehyun’s stressed out with the chaos that’s evolving, no matter how much he must be used to it. You step in to quell the rage you’d accidentally fired up, “You guys must be getting so smart, that’s amazing! I am in twelfth grade, just like your older brother.”

“Mary Jane, what do you do?” Jaemin has no qualms with addressing you directly, sticking to his previous commitment of calling you by the Spiderman character’s name instead of your own.

“What do I do?”

“Ya, like Jae plays the piano, what do you do?”

“Y/n’s a ballerina, Min. Do you know what that is?” Jaemin shakes his head no at his brother’s question. Before you’re able to explain what it is, Jaehyun does it for you, “She dances on her tiptoes, in all these pretty dresses. I play the piano for her, huh, how cool is that?”

You hide your blush by downing an entire glass of water and hoping your very best that not a single other person at this table is looking your way.

“Wooooowwww,” Jaemin drags out the word with the full heft of intrigued innocence, then goes right for it. “Do you have a boyfriend?”

You choke on said glass of water.

“Min!” Jaehyun exclaims, fully embarrassed by the question as he turns to you and apologizes, “I’m sorry, I don’t even know he knows that.” He then glares right at Mark, thinking he’s pinpointed the bad influence upon his younger brothers with all the profane music, and the accompanying videos, that he likes to listen to.

“Don’t look at me!” Mark grumbles, unwilling to take responsibility for that behavior.

“Ooooooh, sorry. I do have a boyfriend,” you try to let the kid down gently, finding it quite funny that he’d actually attempted it in the first place.

“Damn it!” Jaemin curses as he pounds his fist on the table. You know this is a gesture he’s copied directly from a movie or a music video, not something he learned on his own.

“Mark!”

“I’m eating in my room!” The middle boy growls as he throws down his napkin and scoops up his plate, frustrated that he’s being continually blamed for his younger brother’s wild behavior. You sense that this is an argument they’ve had multiple times. Mostly because when he storms up the stairs and slams the door of his room behind him, his eldest brother does not give chase or do anything to try and stop him.

“Can we watch TV instead of sitting here?” Jaemin asks, unfazed by how he’s brought about all of this sudden drama.

“No, dinners are supposed to be family time…” Jaehyun tries to stop the twins, but they’re already getting up from their seats, enticed by the TV now that Jisung isn’t monopolizing it. He gives up on trying to hold the brotherly unit together, taking his glasses off so he can pinch right at his nose and cave, “Ugh…. fine. Getting ready for bed by eight thirty!”

They yell in excitement and take their plates to the coffee table, errant spaghetti spilling over the edge which Jaehyun sees and groans about, knowing he will have to clean it up himself. Jisung remains at the table, unwilling to let your hand go, thus you just continue your awkward shoveling of food with your non dominant hand.

“Sorry,” he mutters, head still in his hands as he gives up on eating in favor of calming down. “Do you have siblings?”

“I don’t, but it’s really nothing to be sorry about.”

“Growing up alone must’ve been so nice.”

 _Definitely not as nice as you think. Having the buffer of at least one more sibling, I’m convinced, would have made my home life a whole lot less stressful_. _I wouldn’t have had to take that all on my own, I wouldn't have had to be perfect._ But you’re in a reverse situation here, you suppose, both wanting the other’s lives. Can’t rub it in his face too much, you settle on a placid, “Hmmm, I guess," instead.

He leans back against he chair, rubbing his eye in frustration, and he sighs and divulges, “That’s why I’m so excited to go to Columbia, finally feel like I’ll get to get out of this town, be myself, you know?”

“I get it, I’m looking forward to that, too,” you concur. But it's not just agreement, you have an intimate understanding of that feeling. You’ve wanted to get out of Newark and never look back since you were fourteen. Each day that passes is a step closer to that being a reality. First Princeton, then New York City. Newark will soon become just a stop on the train to you.

“And where will that be happening?” he tries again to pry, a noble effort.

You’re still not giving up anything except for a technically true, “Just a New Jersey school, nothing special.”

“Rutgers with Sana?” Jaehyun theorizes, knowing you’re best friends and probably make a lot of big life decisions together. “That’s all she posts about on social media anymore… for singing?”

Right, she’s been posting clips from the Rutgers official Instagram since she hit you with the good news at the studio. It’s a logical assumption that you might be interested in Rutgers too. He doesn’t know that you hadn’t even applied to the standard school most of your peers considered a reach.

“Musical theater,” you correct him, for narrative’s sake. “Our moms went to high school together. We’ve known each other since we were babies, and she’s wanted to be on Broadway since we were six. Hopefully Rutgers is a stepping stone that will help her.” You’ve been doing a lot of giving up about your life, and you have several queries that are itching at you in return, “Two personal questions, may I?”

He looks tired, bone tired, you wouldn’t be offended at all if Jaehyun just asked you to leave so he can sleep. But he doesn’t do that, he shoots you a small smile and stipulates, “Let me take the baby to bed and I’m all yours after that. Come on, Ji.”

You look over to the seat beside you and realize that Jisung’s half fallen asleep onto his plate, some of his curly hair getting into his broccoli, though his hand is still in yours. There’s a strange sensation of a particular something that jolts through your skin when Jaehyun gently takes your hand to untangle his brother’s from it, that escalates into a lightning storm when he lifts the little boy onto his shoulder and goes to carry him up the stairs. Why does that touch you in such a particular way?

He comes down not even ten minutes later, the kid must’ve been sleepy enough to pass out that fast. Instead of sitting at his old seat at the table, Jaehyun takes Jisung’s instead, sitting close enough to you that your bare knee under your skirt tangents upon the worn cotton of his sweatpants. He twists in his chair to prop himself up on his elbow and egg you on, “So, the first?”

You suddenly hate that you’d brought this moment about, it feels suffocating to be here alone with him. You’re friends, sure, but you’re not close and this subject you’re trying to broach really isn’t a line you should cross. You can’t help the nosiness, though, at how you'd noticed they all had different last names. So you lower your voice that the twins can’t hear, and start, “Are they all… um, how do I say this politely?”

Jaehyun is intelligent enough to pick up on what you’re saying and not scold you for it, “Are they all actually my siblings? Yes, half. The twins and Jisung are the only ones that have the same dad, let alone want to see him.” The sharp bite of his tone tells you there’s some kind of bad blood there with his own father, he moves past it so fast you know he’s unwilling to detail further. He does, however, go softly wistful and murmur, “Momma, she. I’m not sure if I know the details, nor would it really be my place to tell you. But she is a very loving, trusting person.”

You can kind of read between the lines, three fathers, five kids, no husband or boyfriend currently in the picture. He’s probably been used to this life for some time now, being dad and brother and son all at once. That must be exhausting.

You won’t force him to discuss any more, just nodding, “I understand.”

He surprises you when he gives up something else entirely, “That’s um, originally why I took the job, believe it or not.” His glasses are askew at an angle that is so charming against the contrast of his black hair, more so the pink of his cheeks when he admits, “We just have Momma, who waits tables at Punchbowl, and I’m eighteen already so I can work. Everything I make goes half into my college fund and half to… literally everything else.” He drops his head, suddenly nervous when you don’t respond right away, and he mumbles into the sleeve of his sweater, “Please don’t judge me, probably should’ve opened with that.”

Well, you’ve seen his car and the no-nonsense way he dresses, and figured he wasn’t like the wannabes at your school, who liked to dress up and pretend they went to the prestigious private school in Newark city center. You also figured that Mark’s medical expenses must’ve been high with how awful the healthcare is in this country. That’s why you always reassured him he would get full pay, because you knew how class council had raised money for Mark and figured their family could use extra. But you didn’t realize it was to this point.

That gives you the courage to look down to your pristine Nike sneakers, a recent find, and quietly confess, “I don’t care, I’m poor too.”

Jeahyun coughs over the sip of water he’s just taken, “Sorry, what?” He gives your outfit a once over, not a lewd one, the Nike shoes and Levi skirt and an old worn Louis Vuitton pullover, spotting your Michael Kors backpack to the side. Not putting it together, he asks, “But the designer stuff, and the bags, and best dressed four years in a row?”

_I hate every stupid tradition at Edison, most of all the superlatives handed out each year. I’ve taken home best dressed every year since I was a freshman and no one has ever caught on that it’s all a farce?_

“I also have a story I can’t share all the details of.” It’s bizarre how unknowingly similar you two are. “And a really unknown, hidden away thrift shop I go to in New Brunswick.”

It’s his turn to read the context - that none of the fancy things you own are actually purchased yourself firsthand. That you shop at Make a Wish’s, a vintage clothing store almost an hour away from home where no one can spot you. That you pretty much only purchase clothes from there unless you have extra money saved up, and even then you don't go any fancier than H&M. That you’ve been hiding this from everyone - your peers, friends, boyfriend, and best friend, for years now. And a little bit of the tension in his shoulders go.

He loops the conversation back around to the start, “What was your second question.”

“The church comment earlier? Why is that not a dinner discussion?” You’d wanted to ask that straight away, but religion is such a taboo topic, you had to work up the courage with the other query first.

He doesn’t seem fazed by it though, answering it with an easy, “Can’t ruin the illusion in front of the peanuts.”

“Questioning our God now, are we?” you joke, hoping it’s not inappropriate to do so.

“How can God give a fourteen year old cancer?”

You suck in a painful breath at the sudden reveal of why he’s lost faith in his family’s belief system. It’s the worst kind of rhetorical question that could crumble a pillar of divinity in an instant. Children are innocent, they never deserve a punishment as horrific as cancer no matter who they are. If there’s a higher power out there, it’s impossible to understand why they keep making such tragedies occur. You can only shake your head in sympathy and shrug, knowing there’s not much you can say to make him feel better.

Jaehyun’s gravelly, deep voice is full of hurt, hurting him, hurting you, as he goes on, “And he made it through, but M was not like that before it all happened. So moody and unhelpful and angry, obsessed with being popular? I don’t want to make this a religious discussion, or offend you but like. You have to get what I’m saying.”

He thinks you’re asking out of a place of personal discomfort at his rejection, not agreement. You don’t think you’re in a position to tell him you’ve had a parallel thought in your life, one that’s burned at your chest for years now, _how could God give me parents that don’t really care about me?_ It’s not the same as a life-threatening illness, not at all, but it feels like the hand of the universe twisting just a bit too unnecessarily in its cruelty.

“I said _my parents_ go to that church,” you emphasize, wanting to know that this has nothing to do with you personally. “I’ve haven’t gone for a while, and have had my issues with it for even longer. I do get it.” You’d convinced Seulgi to schedule all your private lessons on Sunday mornings during the usual times your mother would drag your family to church, so you’d been fortunate enough to not have to go the past four years. And you’re unsure if you’re ever going to go again.

“I really thought you were gonna be a bitch,” Jaehyun confesses in his standard nervous, mute tone. This particular sentence certainly warrants it.

It’s not even particularly insulting to you, because you know the exact kind of reputation girls like Jennie, Miyeon, and sometimes even Sana have at school. But Sana was your friend, and they were hers, and when you started at Edison after going to a different middle school, it all sort of just happened, no matter how much you didn’t want it to.

You pull a sarcastic frown and gripe, “Wow, okay.”

He immediately apologizes, thinking you’re hurt by it, “That was way harsh, I’m sorry.”

“Don’t be sorry,” you wave him off, getting existential as you think about the kind of life you wish you lived these past four years, one that looks more like his. “It’s all part and parcel of being ‘popular,’ right? But really, that’s not who I am.”

His hand fidgets against his glasses — you’ve picked up on that as his signature nervous tell — and he faintly admits, “I know that.”

Your breath gets marooned on the island of your throat as there’s a moment of paused stillness, just the two of you at the table with mutual understanding of a shared struggle.

“Jaejae,” Renjun’s little voice floats over from the living room, “I’m sleepy.”

Jaehyun blinks ever so slowly, in the ultimate reluctance to tear his pretty brown eyes off of you. They’re really pretty, really, really pretty. You’ve never seen them up close like this, where the glass of his spectacles reflects the light into his irises in this warmly enchanting way. You nudge his elbow lightly with yours, gesture subtle but sensation explosive, and you give your approval with just a quiet tilt of your head back towards the couch. You experience that same fireworks display across the breadth of your chest when Jaehyun picks up both the twins at once. With one boy on each hip, the both of them together weigh him down quite heavily, yet he carries them up the stairs with no problem.

You don’t want to be useless, sitting there scrolling Instagram and waiting for him to come back down to see if that moment can be replicated again. So you get up, set your phone to play some music from _Romeo and Juliet_ at a quiet volume, and begin to collect the dishes. You clean the ones at the table first, plates and cups and kid utensils, then you set about loading the dishwasher with the pots and pans Jaehyun had used to cook, littered about the tiny kitchen. When that’s running, you take a paper towel roll and clean the hardwood floor where the twins had dropped their spaghetti in their wild haste to the couch, and give the table an extra wipe down from where Jisung had spilled parmesan cheese everywhere.

You dance as you go, flitting on your tiptoes as you put the drying rack away, whipping off a pirouette or two on the linoleum tile when you go looking for the mop. And while you’re mopping the kitchen floor, you dance with the wood handle of the mop like it’s Romeo come to life, a dance partner for you to practice with as you shine the tiles.

“Hello?”

You mop over your feet in surprise, nearly jumping out of your skin at the surprise, “Ah!”

You turn in haste, holding the cleaning tool in front of you, a shoddy line of defense at an intruder, and you only spot a small woman in a waitress’s uniform. When she smiles at you, she has the exact same smile as her twins, and the curl of the flyaway hair coming out of her bun is exactly the same as her middle and youngest’s. She’d looked exactly the same at the pep rally last year, that memory of her is imprinted into your brain maybe forever.

Jaehyun’s mother rushes over to you to make sure you’re not hurt, chuckling melodically when she sees your wet socks and rushing to make amends, “Oh my gosh, sweetheart, I’m so sorry for scaring you. Are you Jae’s friend? The one who was coming over for ballet practice or something?”

You didn’t even know he would mention something like this to his mom. You hold out your hand for her to shake, “Yes, my name is y/n.”

She forgoes the handshake for a hug, her frame enveloping yours in a rush of motherly warmth you can’t even recall the last time you’ve been on the receiving end of. “Aw,” she warbles right into your shoulder, “Jae has never had a friend over from school before.” She jolts back in a hurry, hand covering her mouth, and she sheepishly requests,“Don’t tell him I told you that.”

You already had a feeling Mark was his only friend, but you won’t say anything. “My lips? Sealed.”

Now that she’s not hugging you, she has a clear shot to look at your face, and her brow furrows as she thinks of where she might know you from. You can’t say you’ve ever met her in person before, heck, you hadn’t even spoken to Jaehyun in person before last month. But maybe the pep rally, did she remember that? You swore no one had seen you there.

“Oh, you won prom queen at the high school last year. I saw you in the paper, that’s how I know you,” she recalls. You have to hide your internal eye roll. Of course, your mom still has the photo of you and Wonho with your crowns on hung up in your dining room, cut right out from the front of the local news section of the _Newark Review._ You kind of hate that Ms. Jung has this funny expression on her face, that she can't figure out why someone like you has come to be in her house. 

“That’s me!” you say with false entertainment, before you steer the discussion away from you at all costs, “Um, I think Jaehyun took the twins up for bed, but he honestly might have fallen asleep? That was almost half an hour ago.”

“Jae’s so tired always—,” she begins to confirm what you’d noticed, before she reaches for a glass out of the drying rack and finds it empty. In haste, her eyes dart from there to the sparkling sink, down to the freshly mopped floor, over to the pristine dining room. And her voice cracks a little, “D-did you clean my house?”

She’s emotional, and you don’t think it’s your place to get emotional even though you kind of feel like you’re about to. You tamp that down and nod, “I did. But I really should be going, I also need to clean my kitchen at home.”

“Sweetheart, I’ll get you some money, you shouldn’t have had to babysit my boys or do anything for my house,” Jaehyun’s mom says as she fumbles for her purse, then for her wallet, finally pulling out a twenty dollar bill and trying to hand it over to you. Twenty dollars could really cut down on your bus fare for the rest of the month, or fund your trip to visit Princeton for accepted students’ weekend. But she needs that money way more than you do.

You close her hand over the dollar bill in kind denial, pushing it back to her. And you tell her with full, heartfelt sincerity, “It’s totally fine, ma’am. You have some lovely sons.”

—

You’re on the phone with Jungkook as you wait for Jaehyun to start your rehearsal, but you’re beginning to think that you shouldn’t have called. This discussion is only giving you anxiety, and the last time Jungkook had frustrated you like this, you’d had an absolutely awful rehearsal. You can’t afford for that to happen today, not only because this is your last shot for portfolio filming, but because you also have to deal with this conversation’s topic.

“What kind of corsage did you want again?” is what Jungkook has most recently said, in response to your first question, _did you order the corsages yet?_

And, “My dress is green, get whatever you want that doesn’t clash with it,” was your answer.

However, you were not prepared for what comes next, Jungkook sighing in exasperation and exclaiming, “Green? My tie is pink!”

“I told you I got a green dress weeks ago,” you remind him, knowing you have receipts for that conversation saved in your messages. He’ll get one shot to clear this up, explain it was a misunderstanding and offer to get the right one. Your mother won’t be happy if you’re not matching and you have no time to rectify the situation yourself.

But he doesn’t do that, he just blusters, “I don’t have time to get a green tie!”

“I’m just confused how this got lost in translation,” you reply, _calm, you can’t get mad before rehearsal, keep calm._ But ultimately give up and mutter, “It’s fine. Don’t worry.” Jungkook will just have to take the heat off you when your mother inevitably throws a fit. You don’t want to deal with this right now.

Thinking he’s let off the hook so easily, Jungkook defaults to natural flirtation to ensure you aren’t mad, “You’re so chill, babe. I love that about you. See you tomorrow.”

You just end the call, no response necessary.

Perfect timing to see Jaehyun running in, late since he had to take the twins to their karate lessons after school first. Out of total curiosity, you ask him the same question you’d just asked your boyfriend, “You get a corsage for your date yet?”

His hand clunks against an errant bunch of keys in his surprise, “My what?”

“Your prom date?”

Jaehyun’s nose wrinkles in discomfort at the topic and he grumbles, annoyed, “I didn’t ask anyone to prom this year. I asked Jennie last year because I had a massive crush on her and she laughed in my face.”

Come to think of it, you do remember Jennie telling the story of some nerdy loser approaching her in the hallway with a bouquet of flowers. You’d sat at the table, stony-faced, while everyone else cackled at her story of rejection. You were unwilling to divulge you’d found the subdued asking kind of cute in comparison to the extravagant ways guys would typically invite girls to the dance. You’d only managed to escape that this year by warning _Mrs. Jeon herself_ that her son could absolutely not make a scene to ask you to prom. So, you’d gotten a bouquet of roses in your locker — cliché, but acceptable.

“Bitch,” you curse under your breath.

One of his eyebrows shoots into his hairline and he chuckles in amusement, “Whoa, that is the first time I’ve heard you curse. Isn’t she your friend?”

“Not anymore,” you swear a bit of sarcastic allegiance to him before getting to it. You can’t waste much more time. “Are you ready to work all night if we need?”

He salutes comically and dips his head in a deferential bow, “Anything for you, prima donna. You want to mark it first?”

You adjust the skirt you have on, white with tulips that match your dusty pink leotard, and you shrug, “Nah, I feel better about it today.” _Knowing I won’t have a personal audience this time has seriously helped my self-esteem_. _Seriously, I'm considering telling Jungkook to not even bother showing up to the show so that it goes well._

“You sure you won’t fall?”

You shoot him a dark look, and a warning snarl, “Don’t make this the second time I curse.”

Jaehyun holds up his hands in self defense at his joke, “Okay, okay.” And perhaps to assuage you, he smiles, with a cheeky dimple pop, as he reminds himself, “I’ll go quiet on those triplets, just how you like it.”

The intent behind those words powers you forward. When you step onto the floor under the glare of your recording phone, you feel a burst of confident energy take over your limbs. You hear Jaehyun play the opening notes in that quiet timbre like he’d promised, and from then on, you have a good feeling about it. He even remembers to draw out the opening notes of the introduction, so you fall into your penché with buttery ease, leg flying up to your head behind you. This time, when you step around to attempt the movement on the other leg, your ankle stays strong and you do not tumble to the floor.

You feel as if you are Giselle, dancing for your friends and your mother, heart brimming to fullness with love. It’s a unique sensation of excellence — fluttery skirt in your hands, hair flying around your face where you’ve taken it down, all balances held, every pirouette a triple, your legs arcing to the ceiling with grace. You conclude in a whirling manège of pique turns, not stopping for a moment to exhale, spinning and spinning and spinning and…. you finish the variation perfectly smoothly, on one knee as choreographed, head bowed.

“So much for all night,” Jaehyun’s shocked, disbelieving voice chokes out with an undertone of laughter.

You’re as astonished as he is that it went that beautifully, breathing out, “I can’t believe I did that.”

“I can. I wanna watch, come on, let’s see it,” he urges you on.

You scramble up to retrieve your phone and go sit next to him at the piano bench, thigh squishing his as he moves to make room for you. Watching it back on video is as surreal as it felt to be dancing like that, like your body was possessed with the essence of the character, face wonderfully happy, body moving with poise.

He stares in captivation until it ends, then murmurs in awe,“You could send this without editing right now.”

That sparks the kind of wild idea in you that you’ve never had before. You raise an intrigued eyebrow as you reach for your backpack, asking, “Should I?”

“A-are you really going to?” Jaehyun stutters, grabbing your arm to keep you from taking out your laptop because he’d said that comment as a total, overwhelmed joke. “I was kidding, I edited my submission for Juilliard for a week straight.”

You shrug, about as close to the YOLO feeling Drake had been rapping about in another song you’d Googled. “Why not?”

 _I would literally never, and I mean never, ever, ever do something as foolish and irresponsible as this. I was supposed to take time to do multiple takes, to prime my extensions and acting, maybe use my costume from the show, and then edit it all into a perfect video the head of the performing arts department would love. But there’s an something about this moment that has me convinced that I’ll never do it better than this_.

You text yourself the video and open it on your computer, then crop out the intro seconds when you and Jaehyun had been preparing. You shift the computer screen so he can’t see the Princeton logo at the top of the screen, then upload it to your accepted student portal all in one go. No regrets, no turning back.

“You are literally the most talented person I know,” he sighs out as soon as you turn back, face flushed with the glow of accomplishment.

You roll your eyes, grab his chin and rotate it so he’s looking at himself in the mirror reflection. His cheeks go hot pink under your hold when you retort, “There’s a mirror right here, please look in it.” _My dancing was only half the video, if you hadn’t been playing the piano with all your professional skill, it would’ve been a major disaster_.

“Ugh, shut up,” he groans, shoving you off him, too embarrassed to accept your compliment. He fixes you with a grin and asks, “How are we celebrating, then? Shall we go to McDonald’s again? I’ll buy you a Flurry _and_ an apple pie.”

It’s you who owes him for making you look good, and there’s nothing more you want to do than spend an idle evening with your friend. But after that rush of irresponsible adrenaline, you have to revert to the appropriate you. You’re compelled to deny him, “I have to practice. Lay, the guy from Trenton Ballet, is coming up for a day next weekend, and I need to start preparing. Definitely feel free to go, though, I have a recording to use anyways.”

“Mom has the car again.” He doesn’t need to explain further, you’re on a different level of understanding with each other now. You’re fine having him stay and hang out, because unlike certain other people, he does not make you nervous. You can see his hands flex on the wooden seat as he asks another random question, “What’s your favorite scene from the ballet?”

“I’ll show you,” you offer instead of explaining. You don’t know why you’re suddenly enthusiastic, but you spring up, looking for something. After retrieving a small fake lily from the bouquet in the corner, you run back to him and ask, “Okay, this is a scene from the beginning of the ballet. Can I borrow your bench for a second?” He obliges, actually picking up the piece of furniture and placing it out in the middle of the floor for you, flopping himself against the mirror to watch.

“Every day, Giselle picks a flower and plays a game with Albrecht to see what their future is going to be. It’s usually a daisy, but we don’t have any right now, only the lilies we use in the second act, which are my favorite. Just pretend, okay?”

Jaehyun nods solemnly, committing himself to the fantasy.Seulgi bought a huge amount of fake flowers for you to practice your realistic mime with, you think you can burn one to show him the sweetest moment from the ballet. You pull one white petal off of the flower, dip your head in the exaggerated nod that’ll convey the words on stage, “He loves me.”

You pull off another, “He loves me not.”

“She always skips ahead to see what the petals tell her,” you say as you look down and mimic pointing at each petal, face crumpling in mock upset when you count an even number of fake petals. You fix your expression back into its neutral gaze as you peer at yourself in the mirror, able to finally see the threads of Giselle spiraling out of you, the inner turmoil and wonder. “She lands on _he loves me not_ , and that upsets her. When she’s not looking, he pulls a petal off to ease her worry, which ironically foreshadows the rest of the ballet.”

Namely, the fact that Giselle ends up _dying_ because Albrecht lied to her.

“It’s my favorite scene because, oh I don’t know. It’s so wonderful and sweet and innocent, one of the only happy moments before their relationship is destroyed. It’s not even a whole lot of dancing, it just, it gets me every time.”

You’ve looked up pictures of Lay Zhang on the Trenton Ballet website, and are sure you’re going to do more than your fair share of blushing when you have to act out this scene with him. Even Jungkook had playfully asked you to practice with him after watching a rehearsal the first week you’d learned the choreography. You’d plucked a flower to his teasing words, and the afternoon had evolved into a silly mess of cuddling and snuggling. 

But somehow, some way, those incidents are fading away into pearlescent, incomparable nothingness with how Jaehyun’s staring at you right this very minute. His chin in his hand, glasses at an angle, mouth in a crooked smile, and his very, very, very fond voice when he murmurs, “Your ballets are crazy, prima donna. I can’t wait to see you in one.”

—

You get home after ten one night, after a long Giselle rehearsal with the whole studio. There’s nothing more you want to do than eat the half of your sandwich you didn’t have time to eat at lunch and go right to bed, that’s how tired you are. But with your horrid luck, you’ve somehow timed it poorly so neither of your parents are asleep yet. In fact, they’re both out in the living room when you attempt to sneak by them into the kitchen for an apple to eat with your sandwich.

“Natalie Jeon called the other day, wanting to know about prom details and how Dad’s work event was?” your mother calls. You suspend all bodily motion with your hand on the fridge, eyes open in shock. “Why didn’t you tell me we were invited to the senior banquet?”

 _Take a moment, take a breath, then compose your face into neutrality, and do the same with your voice!_ You reappear around the corner of your kitchen door and quietly explain, “I thought you would appreciate the excuse to not show your face.”

“But Natalie—,”

“Mother. It was a lacrosse event. The kind of event where every mom there would be in their finest Lilly Pulitzer, and would definitely be able to sniff out the fact that you’re wearing what I picked up last time I went to Make a Wish’s.”

You’re loathe to ever call out the willful deception this entire family plays, but sometimes your mother gets too lost in it. The parents of your peers are where they get their stuck-up bitchiness from in the first place. Most of them keep their nose so high up in the air you swear they think they’re CEOs and not just suburban moms. You do your best to pick out the most recent and fashionable items for your mom when you take the trip to the New Brunswick thrift store. But you also know that her showing up in last year’s collection would’ve stirred the rumor mill faster than anything.

She, however, takes it right to the extreme, gasping in dramatics, “Are you saying you’re ashamed of your parents?”

“I—,” you have an instinct to argue, before your fatigue takes over and you roll to show your belly. “No, I would never. I’m sorry.”

All you wanted to do was help.

“It’s alright, I wouldn't want to go to that kind of thing anyways,” your father speaks up. You’re surprised that he’s even tried, and even more so that you could hear his voice from where the Knicks game is on. There’s just the slightest hint of gratitude there that you feel inner peace with the decision you’d made on his behalf.

You continue on with a practical explanation of why you didn’t bring them to the event, hoping it will persuade your mother this was nothing personal, “It did not make sense to me that significant others’ parents were invited. All that happened was their coaches made speeches, and their littles on the team gave them gifts. Nothing of import happened besides Jungkook announcing he was going to UNC, which I’ve already told you about.”

“Speaking of college.” _Oh no, oh no, oh no, oh no_. “I also got an email from your counselor.”

Okay, honestly not bad. Better than a person somehow hacking your student portal and spilling the beans about Princeton. _Keep your cool, don’t blow it_. “From Ms. Hwang? What about?”

“She said that your scholarship from Taeho Lee has not been applied to a university yet.”

Seulgi had managed to get you an audience with the CEO’s scholarship director. Apparently, the entrepreneur had a love for the arts he’d cultivated through the years. His company funded the establishment of all the top private performing arts schools in North America, alongside a number of museums and theaters. His wife was a long time season ticket holder to the New York Ballet Company, and his eldest son is apparently a ballet dancer as well. He’d set up a scholarship fund for students in New Jersey pursing the arts in higher education — even before you’d started applying you’d won a portion of that money for yourself.

This is some of the only information your parents know, because you’d told them to ensure that they wouldn’t have to worry about paying for school out of pocket. You’re sure this is a big part of the reason why they left you on your own for the rest of the process, knowing they wouldn’t have to limit your search because of financial matters. They gratefully latched on to the financial reprieve, bolstered by the fact that Mr. Lee was known as a devout Christian man who raised his family with good values. You never heard the end of it, it was always _Taeho Lee this, Taeho Lee that_ , you swear his picture is going to end up in your living room right beside Jesus’s and you’ve never even met the man.

“That’s right,” you confirm.

“When are you going to make a decision? You’ve already heard from Stonybrook and Monmouth. I guess I could accept you going to either,” she lists out your safety schools with a measure of distaste, like she really would want you to go anywhere else.

“I am still waiting for things to be processed.” You hope the phrasing is vague enough for her to assume the _things_ are a few more acceptances to come into your inbox, not that the Princeton financial aid office was just waiting for the scholarship director to sign your forms.

Your mother can’t ever reel in her overbearing need to micromanage your life, she bursts into it like she’s shot out of a cannon, “Y/n, you need to remember, you cannot be frivolous with your decision. You have not made me aware of the rest of your list of considered schools—,”

“You don’t have to worry,” you cut her off before she can get hysterical. “Remember that Ms. Hwang told me that the scholarship is on a floating scale, for however much tuition the school I select requires.”

The perks of being actually rich, not fake rich, must be so nice.

There’s a crack in your mother’s façade that you know you’ve split, the reminder that she has to accept this because she cannot afford to pay on her own. She sniffs haughtily, then concedes,“Well, I suppose UNC with Jungkook would not be that bad, neither would somewhere like Ohio University or Arizona State.”

“Right, I understand,” you answer, never having considered any of the three.

“Who’s going to be valedictorian this year, bunny?” your father asks, serene and unmoved by the previous discussion as he focuses on someone dunking the basketball, the only thing he seems to do as of late.

“I’m not sure.”

You mother will never give up a chance to gossip, especially when your dad doesn’t bother and you’re the only one to entertain it, “At church on Sunday, Seonghwa was bragging that Suho had it in the bag. Which really got Daisy Kim’s hair in a twist, because she thinks RM is going to be giving the speech at graduation. Apparently he’s had two different drafts ready since getting into UC Berkeley, plus he’s on class council with you so it’d make sense.”

You know, you’ve heard him practicing his speech versions with Jungkook at lunch every day for the past two weeks. You’ve almost vomited into your yogurt at least twice at the pompousness of it all. She won’t pick up on the sarcasm you use when you say, “Sounds about right for RM.”

“Anyone else get into a better school, or have better grades?” she prods, having no better leeway to gather the rumors about the kids at your school than you.

_I could tell you that I simply do not care about any of it, but that would only put you in a sour mood. I could also tell you that Jaehyun got into Columbia-Juilliard, and must have a perfect GPA though he’s not told me, but the school would never consider him because I doubt they know who he is either. I could then tell you that I got into Princeton, but you don't deserve that knowledge._

You have to indulge her a little, “No, I think it’ll be a toss up between him and Suho, because he got into—,”

“Vanderbilt, I remember.”

“Yes, no one has really gotten into anywhere better than that.” _Again, except for Jaehyun. And me._

“Not like many from Edison end up successful anyways,” your mother gripes, a paradoxical turn of phrase considering the high school is also her alma mater. You know exactly what happened to her after her own graduation, pieced together from her many rants to inspire you to do differently.

However, it’s simply not true, and before you know it you’re blurting, “The orchestra pianists usually go to Columbia or Berklee.”

Because Jaehyun is going to be more successful than you all. He’s going to graduate with degrees from Columbia and Juilliard, become the lead pianist for the New York Philharmonic or the London Symphony Orchestra, and never look back on your awful little town. That’s even more of a guarantee than you finding success as a ballerina, you’re convinced of it.

“What?” your mom asks, confused as to why you’ve brought them up.

“Never mind,” you wave away your errant mention of your friend. You decide that if you’re going to be stuck in this conversation dead tired, you may as well have a little fun, see what kind of personal entertainment you can derive out of it, “You’re right, I think Ms. Hwang told me there hasn’t been a single Ivy League acceptance in years.”

_And now there’s two._

“Which is idiotic, considering we live an hour away from Princeton,” she comments in a flippant manner, which you nearly start laughing at. Your mother is going to lose her freaking mind when she finds out her little girl is the one who’s going to break that record to go to that exact school. She must interpret your silence as trepidation over your decision, not amusement, because she launches into a suddenly tender reassurance, “You can tell me if you didn’t get into Rutgers, you know. I wouldn’t be upset, though it would be so sad if you and Sana didn’t get to go to college together.”

 _Huh, oddly sweet. I can’t remember the last time she expressed a sort of encouraging sentiment, that she wouldn’t mind me being a failure somehow_. That is all washed away when you hear the vitriol lurking under her next statement, “I think I could put up with Rachael Minatozaki for another four years, even if she will never stop bragging about how Sana is going to be on Broadway. She can’t hold a note….”

“Mother.”

“You know it’s true.” She’s well and truly in it now, this is about to devolve into a diatribe about your best friend, _yet again_ , “and why is she even in your dance classes when she can’t keep up, you shouldn’t be able to just switch levels like that.”

“That’s why I get priv—,”

“Rachael was in the chorus for one tour of Legally Blonde and now she thinks she’s the town star...”

You can’t take a rehashing of these grievances. So what if Sana’s mom actually made it in her profession after years of hard work, even if it was just one Broadway show? You don’t understand why your mother keeps holding onto this. Sure, you get the jealousy and the yearning for a role reversal, that your mother might’ve been the one successful instead, but it hurts to see her anger taken out on the girl who’s like a sister to you. Sure, Sana might be a little off key when she sings from time to time, and cannot express much other than shock or excitement in her acting. But it’s your job to gas her up and make her believe she can reach for her goals. She does that for you!

As she loses herself in the rant, you glance over to the armchair to see if you’ll have an ally in your dad to end this nonsense and get you to your room sooner. But he’s glued to the Knicks like he always is, doing nothing to come to your assistance. So, you stand there in the kitchen and listen to your mom ramble until way after midnight.

Then, you go right to bed, not even able to stomach your sandwich - by the time your head hits the pillow, you're already deep into a dream that you live in New York City, with a housemate that's definitely not Sana.

**tbc.**

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> thank u for reading! hope the religious discussion wasn't too overbearing! this is probably going to be the general tone of discussions on this subject so let me know if you love it or hate it lol


	4. developpé: to develop or to unfold

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “I thought you said your prom was today,” Seulgi recalls. “What are you really doing here?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> here's the mad scene from giselle (seriously worth a watch!) - youtube.com/watch?v=iQid-In9wZQ

There’s really no excuse for you missing Jungkook’s mom’s look of surprise when you walk into his house, but you’ll give it a try. You’re already running half an hour behind because one of the peasant girls kept forgetting her steps and Seulgi made you run the first act twice because of it, not to mention the absolute _reaming_ she’d given you because your run of the mad scene had gone… less than great. Plus, you’re physically blocked from seeing Mrs. Jeon’s face by virtue of the garment bag you have in hand, so you’re going to give yourself a pass.

You just wave at her with your free hand - not really free because you’re holding your phone and water bottle at the same time - and announce as you run up the stairs, “Hi, Mrs. Jeon, sorry I’m late. I had ballet practice.”

“I’m sorry, I thought you were already here—,”

“Ah, Jungkook might’ve messed up the times, he already bought the wrong color tie! I’ll just go up and change, and come down for the pictures.”

You can’t be mad at anyone but yourself, because it’s your fault the whole operation is running behind. You’ve taken this route several times, up the spiral staircase onto the second floor, take a right at the landing, down the hallway, three doors on your right and announce yourself as you walk in, “Hey, big boy, sorry—, what the!”

“Babe.”

You don’t know why you lost the sense of decorum to knock and just barged right through the door. But it’s not like you ever knock when you come over to the Jeon’s — you’ve been barging in since the first week you’d been dating, when Jungkook told you to stop mousing around and just do what you want. As a direct result of that decision, you get a bombarding eyeful of a half naked Jungkook scrambling to close the closet door behind him, face contorted in painful shock at your arrival. There isn’t anything but pure instinct that he’s hiding a person in there. He’s half naked, as in, he’s only in his boxers, what else could he be doing.

You don’t give him a chance to expel the nauseating surprise out of his eyes before you’re blankly asking him, “Who’s in the closet, Jungkook?” There’s no way you’re wrong about this, you can literally hear a rustling sound coming from behind the door. “Who’s in there, huh?” You don’t know how your whirling mind isn’t coming out more into your even-keeled tone, “Your mom said she thought I was already here, which means it’s a girl in there.”

_She hadn’t meant her comment in the context of time, she’d heard you in here with someone and assumed it was me, which is technically impossible in more ways than one._

He actually has the audacity to try the classic, “It’s not what you think, babe, it’s not, I swear.”

He’s shriveling into himself, intimidated by you despite your physical size, and his cowering only makes one thing more prominent. He’s only wearing boxers, as noted, and his demeanor draws your gaze to below his waistline, where one part of him hasn’t shriveled, that’s for sure.

You observe it with sterile and scientific neutrality, commenting through a grim smile, “And you’re about hmmm, halfway to hard right now? Which means that there is definitely a girl in there.” Really, you should be at a boiling rage right now and all you can come up with is a dull, “Ah, this was all about sex, then. Good to know.”

He reassured you this would never be a problem, but you should know better than to trust men. Or trust anyone, really.

“We haven’t even kissed!” he exclaims, exasperated and not attempting to hide it or accept any blame himself. He loads it right down onto your shoulders in one punishing blow, “You don’t put out at all and a guy just … you know?”

“Has needs?” you finish for him, smart enough to know where it was going.

So much for every other thing you’ve ever done for him, going to his games, editing his college essays, helping him with physics because he was barely passing. The line was drawn in harsh, harsh red over the boundary that you’d asked to have — no kissing or sex until you felt ready. One he’d agreed to, because apparently, he had been willing to do anything to date you.

Jungkook’s preparing himself for you to unleash hell, because he immediately diverts to groveling, approaching you with the intent to grab your hand. You make sure to whip your fingers out of range before he can as he whines, “Please, please don’t tell anyone, I can’t lose prom king by not showing up.”

He’s so selfish. You never would’ve worked out.

“No, no. It’s totally cool, go to prom,” you say without a care. You can’t resist a dig, directed loudly towards the space behind him, “Have fun with the closet dweller, get your crown and let second place keep mine.”

His eyes blow wide with another round of confusion. “Second place? You’re not going?”

You know exactly what Jungkook wants. He wants the perfect victory, the picturesque photo op, his image in the paper with the beautiful woman on his arm, the kind of accomplishment no other boy in your class could achieve. You want to do none of that again. Last year had been enough spectacle — you hadn’t even been Wonho’s girlfriend and look what it had gotten you, a kind of envied notoriety you’re still re-hashing to this day. Cheating on you might be the sort of diamond in the rough gift you’d been looking for.

“I have ballet practice,” you excuse yourself with a sigh. “Goodbye, Jungkook.”

You still have your dress bag hoisted by your ear as you make your way down the stairs. You hadn’t lowered your arm once during that confrontation even though it’s straining under the effort to keep the weight up. You focus on that sensation and that sensation only when you hear Mrs. Jeon’s baffled remark, “Y/n, are you leaving—,”

“Ballet, sorry!”

There are no seats left on the bus when you get on, but a man in a suit near the back sees the crushing load of bags you’re under and offers you his. You hope he doesn’t hear your underhand mutter, _saying I had ballet wasn’t a lie, that wasn’t a lie._ You hate a purposeful lie, beyond the ones you feel obliged to perpetuate. _I_ _f I was anybody else, Seulgi would’ve definitely made me stay at the studio late to practice the mad scene. A scene that is drawing stupid, stupid parallels to the situation I’m in right now._

Your phone rings, and as soon as you see the caller ID, you know you have to answer, “Mother, hello.”

“Hello, are you about to head over to Sana’s for photos?”

“Um, no. Heading to another rehearsal session.” The truth, perfectly laid.

Your mother doesn’t like that one bit, that your social event would be deferred to your hobby. You know she's been burning for this day to arrive, even more so than you. She immediately blusters, “What’s going to happen to your prom photos—,”

“I’m going to the studio right now,” you talk over her rant of unhappiness, raising your voice to make sure that she hears. “I’m not sure how late I’ll be.”

“You’re not going, but what about prom queen!” Again, she’s asking on behalf of herself, not you, no one has taken the time to care about what you’ve felt towards any of this.

In fact, this whole relationship had been in an effort to please her. She’d encouraged you to date Jungkook after homecoming, you suspect, in an effort to get you to focus on something other than dance ( _??? laughable, honestly)_. She would also make sure to emphasize establishing your ‘everlasting legacy’ over the senior class, whatever the heck that meant. And because some small, sick part of you wanted to make her happy, you’d gone along with it. It'd been easy to do so, because Jungkook liked you and back then, you'd found him cute. But look where that’s left you.

“I can pick up dinner for myself, don’t worry. And I probably won’t be home tonight.”

“Y/n, don’t hang up!”

You hang up.

Anyways, is this your artistic moment? When you channel a tragic event in your life into your craft, have it elevate your performance with a personal touch you hadn’t had before? In the ballet, Giselle finds out at the same time that Albrecht is both a prince and has a fiancée, and she is so overwhelmed with the revelation that she goes crazy and dies. This is not too far off from a modern day interpretation of this scenario. You’d never really contemplated being cheated on, but logic implies you’d feel something beyond the utter neutrality pervading your body right now.

Once you’re back on the failed rehearsal from the afternoon, you’re stuck on that, not whatever drama had just unfolded at your _(ex?)_ boyfriend’s house. Seulgi had tried to hammer home that you were too technical in your movements, needing to capture the abandon that had flown through Giselle’s body at the moment of her most devastating heartbreak. Maybe you’ll try to channel this void into that, hope it comes off as more authentic for tomorrow’s rehearsal.

“Y/n?” You glance up at the surprised call, thinking the studio would be empty this late on a Saturday. You’re met with your teacher’s concerned face as she asks, “Did you forget something?”

“No, I figured I’d come in to get some studio time before Lay arrives. You know I’ve been having trouble getting into character for the mad scene and don’t want to embarrass myself.” You can’t think of something much worse happening to you than being cripplingly amateurish in front of a real professional. Ironic, considering, well, what just happened.

“I thought you said your prom was today,” Seulgi recalls. “What are you really doing here?” _It’s sad, that Seulgi knows more about me, understands me better, than either of my parents. She’s only my dance teacher, it shouldn’t be this way._

Whatever, you suppose you’ll tell her.

You toss your bag across the waiting room chairs and groan as you sit, “Kind of hard to find the excitement go to prom when you walk in on your boyfriend cheating on you only hours before.” You rub your face, massaging away the stress, and when you’re met with silence you move on, “Is there a studio I can use?”

Seulgi shakes her head quickly, trying to clear her daze, and she beelines to sit next to you. “Whoa, whoa. Jungkook?”

“Yeah. With some girl, he kept her hidden so I couldn’t see who. And frankly, I couldn’t care less who it was,” you pass her the rudimentary details of what went on, then you repeat, “studios?”

Seulgi’s struggling to find words to say, tripping over her answer as she hikes a thumb down the hallway, “Studio three is empty, but there’s no pianist.” She’s obviously worried you’re not expressing any sort of emotion about the ordeal, she puts a soft hand on your arm and gently pries, “Y/n, are you okay.”

You sidestep that entirely, “Um, I will be sure to get all my mime scenes in line for tomorrow’s rehearsal, I know you’ve really been on me about the promise scene with Bathilde.”

“You know, studio three isn’t actually free.”

It’s your turn to send her a look of befuddlement, “But you said—,”

Seulgi keeps a firm grip around your arm, to keep you in place so you won’t run off. She’s only in her early thirties, way too young to be your mother, but she sounds downright parental now, “Prom is not the magical night it’s made out to be, but it’s still fun, and you’ll still remember it.”A drop of venom makes its way into her voice when she follows up with, “But you’re just going to roll over and let him have all the fun? While you sit here and work on something you, quite frankly, know you don’t really need to work on?”

You feel pressed to laugh, that she’s more enraged at Jungkook on your behalf than you actually are. But the emotion that actually overwhelms you is appreciation, because she’d recognized your skills just then without needing to. She’d ridden you hard all day, but still remained appreciative of your extensive effort regardless.

“I just don’t care about prom,” you tell her honestly. You really rather would stay here and rehearse all night, even if she thought you didn’t have to.

“But he does,” Seulgi points out, sly grin dancing over her face.

She’s right, of course, Jungkook cares deeply about prom, as evidenced by his instinctive reaction when you’d stumbled into his room. The first thing that came into his peabrain mind was to beg so he wouldn’t lose prom king. You’re not the type to seek revenge, but it would be mindlessly stupid to let this opportunity slip away from you when it’s been served on such a neat platter.

You definitely chuckle at her excitement, like she’s one of your peers roaring for gossip. Then, you cave, “Let me change.”

Out of everything to regret about missing this night, it truly would be a travesty if this gown never saw the light of day. You strip off your gym clothes, your leotard and tights, and you shimmy right into the satin, strapless emerald gown. It’s an elegant column traversing up your body, resplendent with a slit up the leg and nothing else, simple and satisfactory in its tailoring. You’re not one to wear jewelry _(it gets in the way during pirouettes)_ , nor makeup _(too much sweat)_ , nor high heels _(after wearing pointe shoes for six hours, why would you)_ , but you feel, well. Pretty good. With your hair up in a classic French twist, accentuating the old-school chicness of the look, you’d even hazard saying you feel great about yourself.

All paradoxical emotions, but at least it’s something.

As you exit the dance studio to get into Seulgi’s BMW after locking your stuff in her office, you hear the honk of her car in admiration. She pays you the highest compliment once you’re sitting in the front seat, “Very Grace Kelly of you. Make a Wish’s does gowns now?”

Your teacher had been the one to introduce you to the secondhand store way back freshman year. She’d noticed you’d wear the same leotard to class every day - one you’d hand wash in the sink - because you had no extra. She’d given you a whole load of hers now that she was retired, and gently pointed you in the direction of the store if you needed anything else. She used to be the only one that knew, before you told Jaehyun.

“I got lucky, and was there at the same time as one of their biggest donors. She gave it to me for a steep discount,” you tell her, thinking in gratitude of the sweet, older rich lady who’d passed off her granddaughter’s debutante gown to you for a measly fifty dollars.

When Seulgi pulls out on the main road that leads right to your school, she attempts carefully, “Does your mom know?”

The fact Seulgi’s known since freshman year is a direct consequence of that night, and you will never, ever be able to thank her enough for how she’s taken care of you since. For example, when you look at her with a _what do you think_ kind of glare, she throws a hand up in defense and mocks her voice up into her teaching tone,“Oh, I know just what to say when she calls, _I’m working y/n extra hard, she just can’t get any of these complicated mime sequences right._ ”

“Thank you.”

“Have you decided on a school yet?”

The mention of college has an instant, happy smile tugging at your lips, and you have to at least tell her the minimum, “Yes, but I’m waiting to hear from the ballet program before I spread the word.”

“Congratulations, I’m happy for you no matter what. But I still don’t understand why you didn’t audition straight for NYBC. I mean, I understand, but I don’t.”

You know, you can’t re-hash this argument again without feeling completely raked over the coals. When you’d explained it to Jaehyun, you’d framed it as a deal, a this for that, an exchange over a handshake. It was really you, sixteen, sobbing in your stairwell as your mother said, under no circumstances would she allow you to audition for a company’s trainee program as a teenager. That was the exact same iteration of the blowout fight you’d had two years prior, when she’d tried to take you out of ballet for good. Seulgi doesn’t understand because it’s clear her parents had encouraged her dreams, look where she is now.

“After college is the plan,” you parrot out your future timeline, “if I can even make it into a company at that point.” Who knows if New York Ballet Company would accept a twenty two year old past her prime once you’ve graduated from school, but you'll cling onto that until you no longer can.

“You would make it,” Seulgi states, confident in her prediction. “You would’ve made it when you came to me at fourteen. But having a college degree will be good for you, y/n, wherever it may come from.” Those kind words have you emotionally fragile for the first time today. This is outside recognition that your dream isn’t stupid, and neither is the sacrifice you’re making for your education and for salvaging your personal life.

“Thanks, Seulgi,” you whisper. As you get out of the car, your heart beats with one iota less intensity than before, your teacher able to calm the churning rage you hadn’t picked up on until now.

You think she’s going to pull away, but she knocks on the window and beckons you back to breezily question, “Should we push back rehearsal to 9:30 tomorrow?”

You know exactly why she’s asking, due to the kind of reputation the senior after-prom has garnered from all the wild stories. She should also know you’re not the kind of person who would partake in those activities. Especially when said person has a nine am rehearsal with New Jersey’s biggest young ballet star.

You scoff, pretending like you’re fully offended, “I don’t plan on getting drunk.”

Seulgi glances around the empty parking lot, to ensure no one hears her when she subtly supports you breaking the law, “Maybe you should.” She laughs heartily when the discontented look crosses your face. Finally, with a full, kind heart, she takes the golden bar that she wears through her bun in class every day, and she slips it through your pinned back hair, explaining, “For good luck.”

You don’t know what a pin will do, but you’ll take it. She’s the only one who looks out for you.

You check your phone once before going into the booming gymnasium and see the expected four missed calls from your mother right after you’d hung up on her, then the thousand and one texts from Jungkook. You just delete his contact right out of your phone book without a second blink. The most errant discovery is that there are no missed calls from Sana, not even a text - which doesn’t make sense considering you just remembered you didn’t tell her you weren’t coming over.

But that is lost in the three pings that come in succession right now, all from the same person.  
  


> [9:43 pm] **piano man:** Hello??????  
>  [9:43 pm] **piano man:** Where the fuck are you????  
>  [9:43 pm] **piano man:** They’re about to announce prom court!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

Ha. The first time Jaehyun’s ever texted you, and it’s something like this. The excessive punctuation and swearing are not things you would’ve pegged him for. It’s kind of endearing.

You’re broken out of your charming daydream by the boom of Jooheon, your class’s resident wannabe DJ and one of Jungkook’s lower tier friends _(his words, not yours)_ , over the mic, “First, by a slim majority of your votes, Jungkook Jeon is your prom king!”

You’re compelled to walk forward through the open doors and into the melee of sweaty bodies. Here’s your entire senior class dressed to the nines, standing shoulder to shoulder as they watch the announcement. Jungkook, of course, is already pumping his fists in the air as Miyeon places the fake crown on top of his dirty blonde hair. RM and Mingyu are up on stage as well as Sana and Jennie, all of them landing in the top three for their respective nominations. The only one missing is you. You’re not quite sure yet if you want to go up there, you have half a mind to stay hidden in the mess of the crowd and go home after one dance.

“Shoutout to all my haters,” he roars into the microphone, in an echo to the crowd’s screaming. “This is for you!”

Interesting sort of message to put out there. 

“And for the second year in a row, with a total landslide victory, Edison High School Class of 2020’s Prom Queen is y/f/n y/l/n!” Miyeon doesn’t even have to look down at the cards, you’ve been winning since the first day. She only glances out into the crowd, wondering why you’re not up on stage with the rest of the nominees, “Y/n, are you out there! Y/n?”

You really don’t think you can do this.

“She’s not coming tonight. Sorry everyone!” Sana chirps into the microphone on your behalf, ever your considerate best friend. Jungkook must’ve told her what happened and she’s trying to smooth things over in case you weren't feeling up to the task. Probably for the best that you stay put.

“She’s right here!”

Yangyang Liu, president of Chemistry Society, is right next to you. You’ve maybe spoken two words to each other these four years and he still noticed your subtle entrance enough to make a fuss. So, at his call, the hundreds of people in this room all turn at once, and you’re cast into the boiling lava of that many hot stares, which is then multiplied when a spotlight - _a spotlight!_ \- is shone in your direction.

You’re really focused on one thing, Jungkook’s reaction, to properly influence the choice you’re about to make. If he shows a morsel, a snowflake, a drip drop, any tiny, infinitesimal bit of remorse for his actions, you’ll fold back towards the exit and throw Yangyang under the bus for hallucinating you there. But you catch the corner of Jungkook’s lip drop in dismay, like he’d really been counting on you not to show up, and you’re morally required to do what you do.

You’ve known how to walk elegantly since you were five. All of that is coming in handy now as the crowd parts for you like you’re actual royalty when you glide forward from your spot.

“Y/n, you’re here!” Miyeon cheers, the first of your friends to look genuinely excited at your appearance. “And you look amazing, of course! Round of applause for our prom queen as she comes up to be crowned!”

Your eardrums are blasted right out of your head when the whole throng of people cheers, like you’re some sort of revered icon instead of a girl they’d placed on a pedestal for no good reason. Now that the spotlight is at your back, you can better make out that the rest of your friend group is hollering along with Miyeon as she claps. Well most of them, because Jungkook’s smile has disappeared as he stares down at you, baby pink tie lopsided on his torso clashing with the green ribbon tied around the white rose on his lapel. Sana has disappeared off stage for some reason too, which is a shame, because you really would’ve appreciated her support.

When you’re standing in the epicenter - all eyes on you, breaths collectively held as your peers wait for this moment - you feel a deep itch of discomfort. This is nothing like being on stage during a performance, when the lights are turned up to the point that you can’t make out a single face in the audience. This is glaring and real, and you find yourself searching the group of them for a familiar mop of black locks. Amidst your search, a dainty tiara is placed over your head, resting on the top of your pinned up hair. The applause that follows somehow swallows up your vision, your search bombarded into blackness with the swoon.

“You have to say something to your classmates!” Miyeon instructs you, not at all what you’re prepared for.

You’re a dancer, you speak with your body. It’s clear that you have no talent in expressing any sort of proper sentiment with your words, what the actual heck are you supposed to do here.

Seulgi’s wise voice rings in your mind, _he cares about prom._

Though Jungkook hadn’t actually known you were indifferent to the dance, he’d tried to take away your autonomy and force you into having a miserable time at one of your last high school events. Because he _cheated on you._ He hadn’t apologized once. There’s no getting away with this.

After you’ve taken the microphone from Miyeon, you make well sure to start with a heaping bunch of gratitude that your counterpart did not express, “I’d truly like to thank to everyone who voted for me, it means so much more to me than you will ever know.” _Because even if I feel like I don’t deserve it, and I sort of hate all of you in secret, having the support of my classmates has been a boon, has made my home life feel less debilitating to the smallest degree._

Beckoning Jungkook forth with your best coy smile, you let him get close enough for you to put an affected hand on his chest, to gaze up at him with a face you hope comes across as full of adoration. You certainly let that emotion seep into your tone, “This is the point in the night where I’d get to share a lovely dance with my king, right, baby?”

Jungkook’s black eyes are sparkling with victory and unadulterated relief, not expecting this positive turn of events from you. His hand goes to your waist, preparing himself for the picture-perfect moment.

And you absolutely rip it instead, unleashing a deep-seated vitriol of cursing that you’ve never let out before,“But now, I’m as available as my shitty ex-boyfriend was this afternoon when I walked in on him fucking another girl. So, gentlemen. Now’s your chance!”

The pulsating, intense volume of the room ratchets down to dead silence.

Jungkook’s jaw must be open about three feet with the way he’s reacted in gaping surprise. In your periphery, you see Miyeon at the podium, stunned with her hand covering her mouth. RM is torn between the same surprise and wanting to burst into a round of raucous laughter. Nobody seems to know what to do or how to react, peering up at the impasse between their prom king and queen. _Oooooh my god,_ someone in the crowd whoops. _Holy shit!_ That detonates the room into a frenzy. You hear the rustling of two hundred phones coming out of pockets, the clicks and flashes as they race to take pictures of Jungkook’s grape purple face, boiled into a consuming fury. The exact opposite of the kind of pictorial he’d been desiring.

He snatches the additional microphone off the podium, snarling, “Put your phones down! No pictures!”

Nobody does as he says, in fact all the lenses move with him, taking the scrutinizing stares off of you just for a second. One second is all you need.

“Anyone? Anyone at all want to dance with me,” you breeze into your microphone in return, driving home the point that you were serious about your accusation. You wouldn’t double down on an offer for another boy to take the intended place by your side if you weren’t.

There’s no answer you can hear, so you toss the microphone to the ground and go straight for the staircase, intending to execute your rapidly forming master plan right in the thick of the crowd. The minute your foot touches the vinyl, there’s a mad scramble from the people in front of you. Girls yelp as they're abandoned by their dates, there's the audible melee of guys pushing each other away to be first in line, to hold their hand out for you to take.

“You get out on the floor and you’re dead to me, Mingyu,” Jungkook bellows, pointing a harsh finger out to his lacrosse teammate, who’s clearly itching to scurry from the stage and join the mass of suitors. “Seriously, don’t you fucking try it.”

His warning spreads a glacier of trepidation over the frenzy. No one now dares to cross the threshold and approach you at the risk of being on the receiving end of Jungkook’s irrational fury. _This isn’t fair, he isn’t supposed to win this battle, too._ An extra layer of defense is bolstered up around you when he dares to whine, “Y/n, y/n, babe come on.”

“Does no one want to dance with a proooooom queen?” Jooheon teases from the booth.

You’d asked the crowd for a partner in jest, to ensure that no shadow of doubt would follow your severe allegations. But Jungkook has paralyzed them and exerted some kind of misogynistic control over you all at once, even after you’ve broken up with him via your speech. So, Jooheon’s voice echoing into the speakers just then comes off less of an invitation and more of a mockery. Like you’re the damaged goods here, walking alone to the middle of the gym floor.

_And I was like, why are you so obsessed with me?_

Jooheon’s sudden intrusion of the Mariah Carey classic bursts a round of raucous laughter from those that catch the lyric. You whirl around to where the booth is, stepping a few paces in front of the closest person to ensure the DJ sees you there, sees the ferocious glare you shoot his way. He does, and switches the song right away,

_Every breath you take, and every move you make. Every bond you break, every step you take, I'll be watchin' you._

Suddenly, you’re a bumbling mess of anxiety, chastising yourself for ever thinking you could be this confident in standing up for yourself. It never works. They’re going to paint you as the arrogant temptress, make a mockery of the very real emotional trauma you’ve been through. There's only a few heartbeats left, then every single camera will be back on you once more. You can't do that again.

“You’re not funny,” you yell, loud enough that you know Jooheon can hear, lip curled up in a sneer total disgust.The DJ only puts a mocking hand to his ear, feigning total ignorance _,_ and flips the song once more.

_I'm so into you, I can barely breathe._

You’ll do it yourself. If they want a show, you’ll do it yourself.

Jooheon thinks he’s done it again, put a funny little note of distraction out to keep the attention from being on his friend, but you’ll take that offering. This song, you can work with. You start to move your body to the beat, with the liquid grace and rhythm you always hold, and you make sure to purposefully lip sync along to the lyrics, putting great emphasis on the enticing words, _All I wanna do is to fall in deep, but close ain't close enough 'til we cross the line._ They'll know what that means, all you're doing is proving the point that you're free once more, out of your own volition.

You’re giving it everything you have, the coordinated sweep of your arms, a roll of your hips, the shy smiles, the enticing ones. Maybe the whispers have died down a little as you dance, a prom queen satisfied to do this on her own, or maybe it’s just the adrenaline flowing in your ears as you sway along to Ariana’s magical voice. You’ve never been one for validation, not at all, not from your peers, not from your parents. But you feel one ounce so terrible that a fleeting wish crosses your mind, _I wish somebody would come out and save me from this. I’m still alone, I only have myself for protection._

Your eyelids close once — no valid wish can be made without your eyes closed — and then Jaehyun is right at the edge of the dance floor.

He’s almost unrecognizable at first, mainly because he’s swapped his glasses out for contacts. You can’t believe that that makes such a huge difference you actually have to squint hard to make sure it’s him, but it’s Jaehyun, for sure. You’d thought he wouldn’t put in an ounce of effort into dressing up for this, but you’re so wrong on that. He’s elegantly put together in a complimentary manner to you, in a classic black suit with a periwinkle bow tie and matching vest, no boutonniere since he’d already told you he was planning on showing up dateless. The pristine, glistening cherry on top is the teeny grin draped across his mouth, a silent answer, _I’m here to save you from this._

You’re right in front of him by coincidence, it would be of no consequence for you to reach out and pull him out onto the dance floor. But the grin had masked his true feeling - he’s a statue ensconced firmly into the gym floor, too nervous to do anything but stare. You lift an inviting eyebrow at an arpeggio of digital booms and beckon him, “You want to dance with a prom queen?”

You can pluck out each nerve frothing in his response, “Everyone’s watching.”

He is fidgeting now, fingers pricking at the cuffs of his shirt as you literally see the confidence start to evaporate from his frame. It doesn’t help that the populace is buzzing with intrigue now, none of it kind, as they watch you talk together. The whispering is immediate, ‘Who’s that?’ ‘Hahaha, why’s she talking to that loser?’ ‘Jeon’s going to kill him, oh my god.’

“Exactly. Everyone’s watching.”

_Oh baby, look what you started, the temperature's rising in here, is this gonna happen?_

Spurred on by the lyrics that seem to be calling your names, your hand grasps his as you tug Jaehyun to join you. He gently lifts your free hand to rest on his shoulder, dropping his grip to your waist, and just like that, you're standing together on the dance floor. You expect him to be awkward with his motions, but he moves along with enthusiasm, bouncing up and down with what must be concerted effort to look carefree. He even knows the lyrics, you sing them together at the top of your lungs, _Been waiting and waiting for you to make a move…_ You close your eyes and fling a wild hand into the air with abandon as he twirls you around, the last part of the line coming out in total laughter _, before I make a move!_

_Got everyone watchin' us, so baby, let's keep it secret. A little bit scandalous, but baby, don't let them see it. A little less conversation and a little more touch my body, ‘cause I'm so into you, into you, into you…_

You’re trapped within each other as you dance together, him between your arms and you between his. There is no tidy explanation for you feeling lightheaded as you dance with him, to the beat that’s blasting so loud it’s almost tuneless silence, flooded with the harmonious melodies he’s plucked from the depths of your heart.

Your fingers twist through the strands of hair at the top of his neck, smoothing them out neatly against his flushed skin. You feel girlish and giddy as he gazes at you, and you allow yourself to wonder for a second, only a second, what it would've felt like if you had come to this event together. If he’d won prom king with you after being your boyfriend for the past year, if you’d shared this dance under the wistful crooning of the typical love song they’d play. You’re having a great time bopping to the beat, less dancing and more hopping in place with excitement, but last year you’d danced to Taylor Swift’s _Lover_ with Wonho.

Kind of unfair he’d gotten that specific song when you hadn’t given a crap about him.

When the music finally dissipates into a more neutral melody that doesn’t spike your nausea, and you’re satisfied that not too many people are eavesdropping, you strike up a sarcastic conversation with your dance partner, “Sorry I didn’t respond to your texts. Had some stuff going on.”

He dips you backwards, and over your giggles of surprise he answers, “I can clearly see that. You good?”

You don’t see Jungkook or any of your friends around the stage or where you’re dancing, and a teacher has pulled Jooheon off the stage for the nonsense that he’d just caused in attempting to embarrass you. Good riddance. “I’m good,” you say, then remember you aren’t the only one who’d been caught in the crossfire. You peer up at Jaehyun’s glasses-less, really-incredible-up-this-close face, and sincerely apologize, “Sorry if I forced you to do that.”

“I can’t be mad. I got to dance with you to my celebrity crush’s song,” Jaehyun saucily replies. You giggle at the idea of Ariana Grande being his crush, not when you’d spent the past months thinking it was Tchaikovsky. Out of nowhere, he leans in a bit too close, to the point where you can smell the brightly clean soap he uses, and his voice drops into a conspiratorial whisper, “Idea for you, though. It’s the peanuts’ weekend with their dad, and Momma and Mark are in the city for his oncology check up. House is empty.”

You know it’s Jaehyun, and he and Jungkook might be the two most opposite boys to ever exist at this school. But you can’t be blamed for being ever so jaded after this nonsense. _An empty house on prom night can only imply one thing._ _Is this is a come on?_

“I’m sorry— w-what?” Jaehyun’s bashful stutter is direct evidence of the stark difference between the two.

 _Did I actually say that out loud?_ _Get it together, you were doing so great until now._ You feel the hot and heavy blush settle into your cheeks, but you shrug and nod, hoping it comes off casual, “Madame Kang pushed my rehearsal back to 9:30, so we can stay up.”

“Um, okay. Okay,” he fumbles, not having expected that you’d agree so easily. “I’ll leave first, so um. So people won’t stare.”

If you were asked six months ago what kind of note you’d expected your prom night to end on, your answer would’ve come nowhere within the vicinity of walking off the dance floor to meet Jaehyun Jung in the empty parking lot, wondering why he wouldn’t just leave with you because you couldn’t really care if people saw. And there’s no way you would’ve actually thought you’d been filled with such… contented happiness at how the night had turned out, regardless of it all.

“Y/n?”

“Sana?”

At the sound of your name, you look to see your best friend giving you a not quite enthusiastic wave from where she’s standing - as stunning as anticipated in her pastel pink high-low dress, having decided to leave her hair down in ringlets. She's aimlessly scrolling on her phone, and you realize she's been absent from the festivities since you’d walked in at the announcement. You're pretty surprised at this discovery, because she’s the first person you’d expect to be inside dancing her little heart out.

She twirls a curled, blonde lock around her fingers as her tremulous voice asks, “What happened in there?”

You don’t want to have to tell the story again at any point. Even if she was out here, you’re sure the microphone had echoed your words loud and clear. That’s what you tell her, “You heard what I said.”

“He really… cheated?” Sana seems loathe to breathe the hateful word, too proper to even think of the nefarious action.

You shoot her a grim look to confirm the truth of it all, directly from the source. She stands there, sullen and downtrodden, and you sense that it’s not entirely on your behalf. You think you may have an idea why her mood is so sour. You throw a caring hand around her shoulders, snuggling your face close to hers and whining, “Sorry I didn’t make it to pictures, Sanawich, I know you’re upset about that. Let’s take a few, at least.”

You take off the gold circlet you’d truthfully forgotten you were wearing, and place it on top of her ringlets, the accessory looking perfect in its new place. After you snap one, ten, a hundred different photos of you posing, you collect your phone to go meet your other friend, satisfied you’d made amends for the one thing you’d regretted this night.

Before you've made it halfway to the door,, Sana calls after you, “Wait, y/n, your crown!”

 _Darn it. I thought she wouldn’t have noticed. It wasn’t just the pictures. She is the girl who most wanted this title out of everyone in there, and the voting mass had picked the one most apathetic instead._ “Take it,” you encourage, with all the care in the world you hold for her. “Tell your mom you won.”

“You don’t want it?” she asks in disbelief, unable to comprehend why you wouldn’t keep this shining symbol of your victory.

“Why would I? It’s worth nothing to me.” You give Sana the blunt, honest truth because you hate sugarcoating things for her more than anyone. “Besides, I wasn’t supposed to be here, which means you would’ve won. I hope you had an amazing prom, love ya!”

You kiss Sana on the cheek, right below the apex of her teary, teary eye, and you leave her there, golden crown twisted up in her fingers.

Once you’re out the door, you see that the lights of Jaehyun’s Honda are already on, and you slip inside the passenger side seat after knocking on the window. For some reason, being alone with him now brings about a champagne bottle’s worth of bubbling, overflowing awkward silence. You let a Mendelssohn symphony careen into your ears as you roll all the windows down and let the early June night air sweep in. The silence crescendos when you walk into his dark, empty house, but it no longer has that twinge of awkwardness - your subtle movements are dusted over with comfort and ease, like this is an everyday occurrence you’re going through. He goes straight for a set of drawers right by the TV, leaving you leaned up against the kitchen counter. While he looks through it for something, you toy with the neck of a very expensive looking wine bottle — all crystal engravings and golden font, filled to the top with the blood red liquid.

“Here,” you look up at his voice, the first sound that’s cascaded into the space since you left the dance. You see that Jaehyun’s already got his tie loosened, eager to get the restrictive thing off, and he’s got a pile of fabric in his hands, “These are Mark’s old clothes, we keep them down here for the twins if they get dirty. There’s a bathroom over there.”

He hasn’t turned a light on beyond the faint glow of the oven overhead, but you can still make out the pinky pink sheen of his cheek. As you take the clothes from him, you make well sure that he can’t see the matching hue across yours, and send out an extra thanks that he can’t read your thoughts. Sure, Mark is closest to your size out of all the occupants of this house, Jaehyun knows you’d fit the best in his clothes. And you do, the old Biggie Smalls shirt has room in it and you even have to roll the sweatpants twice. But you know for sure Jaehyun had offered up his younger brother’s clothes because of the exact implications that giving you his would’ve brought about.

When you emerge from the bathroom in a cocoon of comfort, Jaehyun’s already eating a sandwich, suit jacket discarded on the couch. His glasses are reliably set on his face again, all the gel washed out of his hair as it flops in his eyes now, a Superman’s curl of delighted disarray. You sit right on the kitchen counter and trace the design welded into the glass wine bottle as you watch him.

He’s rummaging through the refrigerator, dress shirt coming out of his unbuttoned pants, words muffled through the piece of bread stuck in his mouth, “You hungry? I made chicken last night. Or I make a mean sandwich.” He sees that you’re again idly holding the bottle of wine and he chuckles quietly, “Haha, I think Momma left that out on purpose. She usually keeps it locked so that Jisung won’t get into it.”

You read the label, hoity-toity font spelling out _Cabernet Sauvignon_ , and you find it so funny that multiple adults tonight have egged you on to participate in this illicit tradition. “I’ve never drank before,” you admit. Those kinds of shenanigans would never happen under your mother’s pious roof, and it’s not like you ever graced a high school party with your presence to have a chance at attempting underage drinking.

Jaehyun shrugs, more preoccupied with his ham and cheese than thinking about drinking. “Neither have I.”

A sly smirk curls up on your mouth. “Should we be totally cliché and do this?”

It only takes one second of contemplation for Jaehyun to give in, “Why not.”

It’s embarrassingly fast, how quickly you down the bottle, and you make a mental note to ask Seulgi to help you in getting one to replace it. You drink the alcohol out of chipped blue mugs, not talking much between your preoccupation in chugging and chasing it with a second iteration of the ham sandwich, one you force him to make when you realize you don’t like the taste of red wine. When he pours the last dregs of the bottle into his cup and downs it one go to avoid lingering on the flavor, both of you collapse against the couch, tipsy and confused as to where the night is going from here. This isn’t a typical prom night, not at all, and you feel the crash of a yawn prod at you.

“Let’s play a game,” Jaehyun slurs out of nowhere. “I’m bored and it feels like I’m being lame if I go to bed right now.”

You don’t have cards, so Kings is out, and it’s not fun at all to play Truth or Dare with only two people. Those are the only two drinking games you know from word of mouth and you feel kind of lame, like the onus is on you as a ‘popular’ person to know all of this. You’re curious about him, you have been the whole time since your paths had merged, and you want to pry out the things you wouldn’t have been able to do otherwise.

“Hmmmm.” You think for a second, before you look over at him and proclaim, “Tell me something you don’t want me to know.”

 _More than a secret that is kept from the world, I want to know what you’re hiding specifically from me, and why. I’m definitely hiding things, though only one is inherently specific to you_.

He makes an ungainly face and retorts, “Doesn’t that defeat the purpose of it being something I don’t want you to know?”

“Do you have to be so uptight?” You accuse him with literally no evidence, playing into the nerd-social outcast stereotype you’d fought hard to keep out of your mind when it came to him. You’re hoping it’ll be a shrewd way of forcing his hand into answering.

Jaehyun flusters immediately, not appreciating the assumption at all, “I am not uptight!”

“Prove it, then,” you dare him.

His face goes so red it almost blends in with the dark hue of his hair, and his voice is tinier than an ant’s when he straight away admits, “I’ve been voting for you for prom queen every day since voting started.”

“What?” you whisper, disbelieving and disapproving because you’re afraid of expressing anything else. “Everyone’s only supposed to get one vote, Jae.”

“Yeah, but no one who ran the ballot box knows me, so it was no big deal to put in a fake name on the form every time I left lunch,” he admits, fiddling with the hem of his white undershirt, dress shirt long discarded during your drinking.

A giddy smile is conjured upon your mouth in exact synchrony with the fluttering triplet of your heartbeat, the same manner he plays those triples for you on the piano. _How did the exact same thing happen? Do we really know each other this well already?_

You remind him that he had no reason to risk doing so, “I’ve been winning in the poll since the first day.” There was no official kind of trouble he could get in beyond public humiliation at getting caught rigging the vote. For you. With no rhyme or reason for it, really.

Jaehyun confesses to knowledge of that as well, “I know. But I wanted to make sure you would win, no matter what.” Everything about his demeanor caves into shyness when he whispers, “Didn’t want you to ever know because it seemed… I don’t know. Kind of creepy?”

“That’s not creepy,” you respond with instantaneous reassurance, because he has to know it’s not. It may be the sweetest thing anyone’s ever done for you. The dimple in his left cheek makes a brief appearance, flashing for a second when a tiny smile of appreciation appears on his face. _I would’ve rather lost the crown only having the thirty votes from you and no one else, than winning by a landslide like I did._

It falls out of your mouth like a hazardous avalanche of desire for him to know, “I’m going to Princeton.”

He actually jumps off the couch in surprise, hands flying to hold his head in incredulity as he yelps, “What the fuck?! You said it was a New Jersey school!”

You giggle, giddily, drunkenly, full to the brim with happiness like you never have been before, “Has Princeton somehow not become a New Jersey school?”

“What! Prima donna, congratulations!” He jumps back down onto the cushion to first excitedly shake your arm like it’s a maraca, then yank you into a hug, his own time signature of thrilled giggles telling you he’s definitely just as drunk as you are. Jaehyun is not a giggler.

“That was why I asked you to take me to McDonald’s,” you mumble into his shoulder, because he hasn’t let you go, too excited to think about what he’s doing. “Decisions came out and I had no data left for the month.”

He pulls back at that, to peer in your eyes and make sure you’re not lying to him, surely having picked apart that strange interaction after it’d happened. He puts it together, why’d you’d been so dazed after emerging from the bathroom, buying him two Flurries, skipping to the bus station, and he literally yells, “Oh my god!”

You lean your cheek into his side, relishing in the feeling of familiar warmth, and you murmur, “I wasn’t expecting you to be the first one to know, funny how things work.”

 _Out of everyone I’d hesitated to tell the big news to, my parents, Sana, Seulgi, all of them, I'd felt the most comfortable telling you. Huh_.

He chokes in shock, “The first to know—, we went to McDonald’s weeks ago! Come on, you had to have told your parents, right?” His incredulous statement dies as soon as he says it and realizes your mouth has gone tight with apprehension. “Oh. There’s a story there. Forget I asked, okay.”

Are you about to break this cardinal rule of your existence? Without a second thought?

“It’s not a story, per se. But more of a feeling that I’ve grown into? A hypothesis that’s being slowly confirmed over time,” you sigh, pulling yourself off him so you can have the conversation face to face. There’s something about looking right into his eyes that calms you down.

“Who’s the nerd here now?” Jaehyun teases first. Then he sees you’re not laughing, haven’t even cracked a smile since he mentioned your parents, and he composes himself. “Shutting up.”

“My mom was a ballet dancer just like me, was about to join a small company in Manhattan right after graduating from Edison,” you begin, drawing the first and only parallels between your life and hers. “And then she made the mistake of going out in the city with her friends and her fake ID and getting a little too excited celebrating her new position. I assume you can fill in the rest, especially with what you know about how she goes to church every Sunday.”

You’ve seen their wedding photo only once. From an era pre-bitterness, their twin smiles beaming at a city hall wedding downtown -your mother not yet jaded, your father not yet having lost the dreamy fantasy of NYU Law School in his smile you wear.

Jaehyun is smart enough to understand the implications of your mother’s piety, what a careless one night stand could turn that into. He buffers that understanding with a lighthearted quip, “What a great origin story, prima donna, truly historical.”

“No wonder I’m so great, right?” You feel comfortable to joke, more so with the way his soft chuckles buoy you out, that it doesn’t feel so awful to approach what you have to tell him next.

“My dad, I’m not sure if he has lingering depression because he had to drop out of NYU to take care of us, or because he never wanted to leave the city or what. But he’s struggled to hold a job down, doesn’t do much else with his life besides watching the Knicks every day. He’s basically a non-entity to me. We don’t have a bad relationship, but we have maybe one? conversation a day. Usually me talking about how things are going at school and that's it.”

You can tell from the perplexed expression on Jaehyun’s face that he’s trying to figure out if he’d rather be in his situation or yours - to not know his father at all or to have the man in his life, like your father tangentially orbits around yours, and not really have him. Deep down, you can’t fault your father for any it. You know he’s struggling with things of a magnitude you cannot understand. But there is some inherent resentment that you’re not sure you’ll ever let go of, no matter how many times you manage to spot the ache of regretful care he holds for you.

You steer the story forward, trying to package it as neutral and unaffected as you can. Which is hard, because first off, you’ve never _told_ this story before, and second, you’re not completely heartless to the point where this doesn’t affect you. You’ve just gotten very good at pretending otherwise.

“We couldn’t exist on nothing, and both of them don’t have college degrees. So right now Dad bags groceries at a ShopRite in Hillside so that no one from around here runs into him. Mother gets unemployment benefits every month. Her friends think she’s just a rich stay at home mom and that Dad still works at the same office job he was at two years ago.”

How would Natalie Jeon, lacrosse mom galore, react when she found out her son’s _(ex!)_ girlfriend’s father didn’t actually have business dinners to go to because he got fired from his corporate position for being unable to show up on time. Not to mention the consuming cyclone of gossip Sana’s mother (and you hate to admit, probably Sana herself) would blow up if she realized that your mother didn’t give up ballet to become a glamorous housewife but instead sits around doing nothing all day. That is why you’re painstaking in the way you present yourself — never an outfit past two seasons old, never a hair out of place, polite, smart, at the top of your game in every possible way, because your home life is an utter disaster of the opposite.

“I’m getting the sense,” Jaehyun starts carefully, “that it’s your mom…. that you have a problem with?”

He’s right, of course.

“Mother… hmm, I don’t know.” Polite, polite, you have to be polite or risk the wrath of the universe. You peer over at him to ask, “I assume you know what a dance mom is?”

Jaehyun’s mouth twists in displeasure as he thinks, coming up with the predicted, “Like the show? Creepy and overbearing or like wanting to live out some fantasy through their child?”

“Exactly,” you affirm, but he deserves the way more nuanced version of it. “Looking back on it, my first assumption would be that she would behave that way towards me, and she does, for school, and serious achievements like that. But for ballet, she went the exact opposite route. I, of course, got interested in dance because she had her old leotards and pointe shoes around the house. I’m sure she indulged my interest because I was five and I was cute and it’s every girl mom’s dream that her daughter do ballet.”

Here it comes, the pain and the hurt, the reason why you’d gotten so existential about your beliefs, all packaged up into the awful tale you spin for Jaehyun, “When I was fourteen, and started getting really good at it to the point where I was thinking about pursuing it as a career, she totally shut down. She was about to pull me out of dance, citing that we didn’t have money to keep paying. I was only saved because Seulgi came up with some kind of scholarship that paid for me. I know she’s the one who’s been waiving my tuition this whole time because I saw my ledger by accident.”

You’ll never forget that meeting you had, before the auditions for summer intensives that year. Seulgi required all parents to sign off before sending her students away, and you’d made a Powerpoint - a Powerpoint! - to discuss your top picks, Seattle North Ballet, Dallas Dance Conservatory, and New York Ballet Company’s summer program. You sigh, deeply affected by the recollection even still, and add on, “But imagine fourteen year old me just crying my eyes out, thinking that my dream was crushed forever.”

The moment your mother realized what the meeting was for, to discuss your future career as a ballerina, she’d screamed to the point that Seulgi had to yell at her to stop making you cry. The memory dissolves into a tug of war, her hand on yours and your teacher’s grip on your arm, your father’s reticent silence, the promise that you’d be financially taken care of if that was the issue, and the fact that your mother did not come to see the Nutcracker that winter, when you had your first solo role as Marzipan.

He comes across deeply hurt, deeply, deeply so, like this is a grave personal offense that’s been struck against him. His mouth is pulled into a deep set frown that’s echoed into his angry tone, his fist curled upon his thigh, “I don’t understand how someone could do that to a child. Momma always paid for my piano lessons, no matter what.” He peers over to his keyboard set up in the corner, and you swear you catch a tear glitter in his eye when he breathes, “I started when I was three because my uncle had that keyboard in his basement, and she’s supported me ever since. You never got that?”

“Not really.”

“Why?”

You shrug, a human being spun purely out of hurt, a teenager that still doesn’t have any answers, “I don’t know. Jealousy? That I could maybe walk a path that she wasn’t able to because I was born? Or some kind of protective reaction, that she thinks what happened to her could happen to me, especially with how much she’s emphasized going to school?”

You know for a fact that it’s a mixture of both, though your heavy assumption is the latter. There were two piercing reminders she always slung your way, _make sure you get a college degree so you’re not totally worthless,_ and a second one you don’t even have the heart to parrot out right now.

“Ah, I’m so sorry,” Jaehyun laments, unable to come up with anything else.

After his apology, his hand covers yours and the world feels just a slight degree less horrific. You haven’t cried about it over the past few years, and today will definitely not break that tradition. No matter how much alcohol you’ve had, nor what sort of feeling that kind action stirs in you, you will not cry about this.

You hope he doesn’t realize you’re gripping the life out of his fingers when you do your best to push through the final, awful end bit of it, “That kind of thing just destroys your emotions forever, and she nor I have ever tried to get around it. So we talk, about our days and my friends and how things are going, but it’s always the bare minimum and that’s our relationship.She hasn’t been to another dance performance of mine this entire time.” He winces, like full on winces, with a blow to his breathing and his eyes fluttering closed. That has your entire voice going tremulous and shaky when you seal it up together in a terrible bow, “Out of respect to her, but mostly so my poor dad doesn’t suffer, I maintain the illusion of our life that she indulges in. And because of that, I don’t think I ever want to get married or have kids.”

That’s it, that’s your life, summed up in fifteen minutes of atrocious storytelling to a boy who hadn’t expected that kind of wretchedness at all.

“Thank you for telling me,” Jaehyun says, very politely, with utmost care and the slightest squeeze of your fingers.

You glance at him in surprise, eyebrows shot up halfway off your forehead, “That’s all you’re going to say?” It’s the kind of twisted story that would have anyone blabbing their mouth with platitudes and reassurances and maybe even mindless words of derision against your parents. But he’d sat with an open ear and just let you talk, what you unconsciously have always needed.

“Do you want me to say something more?” Jaehyun asks in surprise, before he rubs a sheepish hand against the bottom rim of his glasses frame. “You gave me the impression that this was an _I talk, you listen, zip your fucking mouth_ type deal.”

“Yeah… I guess not,” you admit, knowing if he tried to make this into a therapy session you would’ve left immediately. “I’ve never told anyone this before, I didn’t know what to expect.”

He blows out a heavy exhale, shaking his head with a deliberate chuckle, “And I thought my answer to the game was a big one.”

“That wasn’t my answer for the game.” _I just wanted to tell you._ “What I didn’t want you to know was that… I was the one person who voted for you for prom king.”

Jaehyun literally chokes on his own breath. He coughs for a solid ten seconds, the words coming out in fits of harried disorientation, “Y-you did w-what now.”

This was never anything anyone was supposed to know. Nevertheless, you’d half set up this game at the beginning of the night to give yourself ample leeway to confess it. More like, there’s been a compulsion to do so since the moment he broke nervous pretense and walked right onto the dance floor to help you. You wish you’d taken a screenshot to have as backup proof, of the way your ballot had looked neatly filled out by the end with your responses:

_Sana Minatozaki // Jaehyun Jung_

“I thought you’d think I was making fun of you,” you mumble, overwhelmingly bashful with the sudden confession. “But Sana thinks you’re cute and I voted for her to be queen, so…”

You thank your best friend for giving you a truth to hide behind, because that had been your initial thought, that maybe you could set them up. But the thought that later took precedence was that it would be nice, for someone as pure-hearted as him to get the chance to win it once.

Somehow, none of that is what he latches onto, not even Sana finding him cute. Jaehyun looks you in the eye and asks in bewilderment, “You didn’t vote for yourself?”

“Why on earth would I vote for myself? I hate all that kind of stuff, being in the spotlight and whatever.” You wave a disgruntled hand like the ideas are flies orbiting your head, wanting nothing more than to go back to the beginning of it all - Sana introducing you to her middle school friends when you’d been new at your high school - and chosen the blessing of anonymity instead.

Jaehyun’s eyes spiral closed as he laughs so hard he tires himself out. He leans his head back on the couch with full comedic amusement, “Yet you want to be a professional ballerina. You’re funny, prima donna.”

You really, just. Are having a hard time being sad about your life right now.Not when your eyes are hazy in contemplative bliss, mind only honed in on the fact that he calls you _prima donna._ Your dad calls you bunny when he’s feeling particularly okay, Sana is particular to cutie, but nobody’s really ever given you a real nickname like you do for others. _Babe_ didn’t even sound half as nice when it came from Jungkook’s mouth—,

“Jae, are you sleeping?” you whisper, tentative, unsure if you want to go _here_ right now. Which is actual insanity, considering what the majorly discussed topics of the night were. But you know he's pretty drunk, and he'll probably wake up in the morning and not remember any of it, so you may as well try. 

“Mmmmm,” he whines. You look over to see him shift his body in your direction, answering in the affirmative though he keeps his eyes closed, “I’m awake.”

“Can I tell you something else?”

“Yeah.”

Your instinct is to screw your eyes shut too, as if the action will help you keep your blubbering at bay, prevent you from spilling the dastardly hurricane of a topic. You fail at that, pretty miserably, “I know the reason why Jungkook cheated on me.”

His pretty brown eyes shoot open without hesitation. He rubs the sleep out of them while muttering darkly, “There’s never a reason. Jocky guys… guys in general are idiots. Anyone who likes sports is an idiot, I hate sports, you know.”

“No, he told me,” you deny his denial, finally feeling the acute stab of your ex’s harsh words, when you mock up the other boy’s deep voice, “y _ou don’t put out at all and a guy just … you know._ ”

“He said that?!” Jaehyun hisses, incensed to the point of sitting up in anger. He doesn’t even think to linger on what Jungkook’s words had actually meant, how kind of him.

Your grim, closelipped smile tells him everything he needs to know, but you _need_ to get it out now, to have another teenage boy contextualize this all for you. To figure out if you’re crazy for acting this way or not.

“So, he’s the first guy I’ve ever dated. Normal expectation is the usual kind of teenage foolery will have occurred, right?” you start. Sana doesn’t hook up, claiming she wants to wait until marriage, but you’ve heard the details of RM and Miyeon’s heavy petting sessions and bawdy tales of Jungkook’s prowess with his exes still linger in Edison’s halls. You swallow thickly, not ready to take the plunge but forcing yourself to continue on, “But I have such a huge… block with getting physical. Because I’m actually kind of scared that what happened with my mom will happen with me.”

First time for everything, including admitting that out loud.

Jaehyun hesitates with responding just as you do in continuing. He doesn’t want to cut you off before you’re done, yet he’s unsure of where you’re going with this.

Like you said before, there were two piercing reminders your mother always made sure to stab your heart with. The first, about your college education, was an aggrieved, every day kind of reminder, sewn into each question she’d send your way about school. The second has only made its dastardly appearance once, when you were thirteen, growled at you in a scorching, unrelenting voice over the dinner table — after she’d prodded and prodded and prodded you into admitting you had the teeniest of teeny crushes on the new boy in your Saturday ballet classes, a boy you hadn’t even spoken to yet.

_Do not go around falling in love with just anyone, not even your little boyfriends. You know you will not have sex until you are married, but you shouldn’t even think about kissing them. Because you_ **_will_ ** _fall in love, no matter what. What will happen to you then?_

She’d gritted her warning out from a misplaced center of motherly concern - she’d been careless with her actions and had ruined her life, from her point of view. She would never want that to reoccur in your story, and had taken the warning to an extreme. But how does a thirteen year old even begin to process that? No wonder you’re so… messed up now. You’re a freak, it’s obvious.

Your cascading rainbow of a dream for your life was to be a ballerina and that was it, why would you ever take steps to purposefully ruin that for yourself? That had evolved into total avoidance of the opposite sex for literal years, no conversations, no physical lines crossed. The utter determination, even as a fresh teenager, that you would never get married, never have a child to mess up like they had with you. The frosty confines of your heart had managed to be thawed a morsel by Jungkook, and you thought maybe that was a sign your worldview was evolving. But no, you’d still made sure to lay out your boundaries on the very first day he’d asked you out. No getting physical until you felt like you were ready for it.

It’s deeper than that, you’ve forgotten Jaehyun is even there as you voice your internal monologue, the words cathartic as they’re released, “It’s not even like… having sex and stuff. That honestly kind of bothers me less, like I would rather have sex with someone than kiss them.” _It’s paradoxical, I know, that the furthest I can go feels the most accessible. Sex is just an act, I can view it as a human instinct designed for reproduction, nothing more. Nor do I care about performing it in or out of wedlock._

But kissing? An act of genuine, fracturing love, a choice that is willingly made, the ultimate expression of vulnerability and trust? The romantic, intimate gesture is filled with a plethora of negative connotation to you. To the point where you’re often covered in an uncomfortable shroud of nerves when scenes come up in movies or shows, where you’re actually relieved you’ve never seen your parents kiss, not even once.

“Weird, right,” you laugh at yourself, hoping it comes across as self-deprecating rather than a girl crippled from the inside out with these existential thoughts, “that the idea of having sex is whatever to me but the idea of kissing a person I don’t genuinely care for or love gives me anxiety?”

“You’ve never kissed anyone before? Even I have?” Jaehyun blurts, his drunk mind speaking before his sober mouth realizes that’s a cringey gaffe he’ll want back.

You’re not mad at him for it, you only reach over and flick at his glasses in annoyance, grumbling, “Wow, thanks for that!”

“I think….” He starts again, before reeling himself in and asking permission first, “Wanna know what I think?” You wave a hand to tell him _go ahead_ , then Jaehyun props himself up on his elbow to lock his gaze with yours, and murmur oh so dreamily, “I think that you shouldn’t give a shit about what guys think. Which is weird, because I’m a guy, but whatever. It’s a personal choice, so why should it ever matter?”

You think the question is one for you to answer, not rhetorical, but apparently he doesn’t much care for any verbal confirmation. Jaehyun doesn’t care, because he’s leaning over to you right now, deliberate as he reaches for your face. _He has big hands,_ you note, of course, that’s how he plays piano so beautifully, but he’s plucking out a different, trembling kind of tune as his fingers come to grasp your face, thumb hesitant as it smoothes over the apple of your cheek. You’re noting the shade of his lips — a fantastically cute, really quite awfully cute shade of ruby red rose — and out of nowhere, he’s pressing his mouth right to the apex of your cheek, a puckered dip of tender, sweet sentiment.

A respectful cheek kiss and nothing more.

“Good night, prima prom donna queen,” he whispers against your face. You can literally feel his smile at his intoxicated edit of the nickname, thinking he’s such a genius.

And then he falls back dead asleep on the brown pillow at the end of the couch.

You can’t help the affected giggle — he looks so funny sleeping there, with his glasses half on his face, that you reach over to gently shimmy them off his nose. Against your better judgement, you return the favor by pressing a breathy, light kiss upon the matching spot on his right cheek, which you swear goes a bit red even in his unconscious state. You take your sweet time to watch him snore, washing the mugs and putting the empty wine bottle in the recycling, retrieving a folded-up old quilt from the hallway closet so you can snuggle him up in it. You have this yearning, to not be far apart from him for some reason, so you pick up a blanket of your own and curl up on the bit of the fluffy rug right at the base of the couch, content to fall asleep to the larghetto of his breathing.

Because you’ve done all these things for him, you wake up to a plethora of spoils in return. First, your face is somehow pressed into the soft back of the couch when your eyes flutter open. He must’ve lifted you right onto the furniture without disturbing your slumber when he woke up and saw you on the floor. Next, you find your prom dress folded up neatly by your head, Seulgi’s lucky gold pin resting on top of the fabric. And last, Jaehyun has already made you pancakes - the way you like, with one burst of whipped cream and a handful of chocolate chips.

He offers to drive you to your rehearsal without you needing to ask and before you get out of his car at the studio, he presses a kiss to your cheek in parting, which means he remembers all of it.

**tbc.**

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> thank u for reading!!!!!!!!!!!! editing made me like this :) the whole time lol


	5. pas de deux: a dance for two

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> I wish we had met earlier so I could’ve dropped all my fake friends sooner.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> the finale of giselle is such an emotional watch: youtu.be/cqOm922Fhx8?t=5788 (timestamp 1:36:28). enjoy!

You have half a mozzarella stick crammed in your mouth, so the query does come out a bit muffled when you ask, “Hey, can I sit here?”

You must look a righteous mess - hair falling out of your bun, leotard visible under the neck of your tee, Gatorade balanced on your laptop. It’s all because you’d had this last minute meeting shoehorned in and are going to have to cave and pay for an Uber to ballet instead of taking the bus. None of that, though, explains the way Jaehyun and Mark glance up from their sandwiches and cough in surprise when they see you drop onto the open seat beside them. You’re confused they’re confused, then Mark takes a really obvious look over to a table that’s doing the same thing. It's filled with your ex-boyfriend and his friends, plus Sana and yours, all watching you avoid them to sit at this lonely table with the two brothers.

“Well, I’m not going to eat with those idiots,” you grumble, not pulling a second more of your attention off of your work, fingers flying over your keys as you make sure the document is as presentable as possible. “And I really need to finish this before my meeting with Ms. Hwang.”

The pair of boys certainly have no issues with you joining them for lunch, Mark even scoots over so you have enough room for your laptop. But you do wonder if you’d induced the awkward silence between them, or if they’d been enveloped in it before your arrival. Things to consider _after_ you’re done with the matter at hand.

“Wait, did we have to do something for our counselor exit meeting,” Jaehyun asks in concern once he sees you’re editing an essay on your screen. “Mine is tomorrow, I didn’t know this.”

You didn’t have time to close your laptop before he saw, you just hope he doesn’t read over your shoulder like Jungkook was prone to do. This isn’t the reflective assignment for your final meeting with the school counselors before graduation. This is a different kind of reflection.

“Oh, um. This is something else,” you mumble, fingers toying with the cotton of your tights in a haste. The gesture does nothing to ease your anxiety about the upcoming admission, one that’s nervously whispered into your keyboard, “She, uh, wanted to go over a draft of my valedictorian speech before I give it next Saturday.”

Mark spits out his sandwich, caught off guard mid-bite by the announcement. Jaehyun yelps in indignation that he barely missed getting hit by a wad of his brother’s half-chewed lunch, _What the hell, M!_ His younger brother doesn’t have a care, he only stretches his arms out in victory and wails with excitement, “Oh my goddddddd, the rap boys want to bet on who it’ll be when we study together this weekend.”

Jaehyun buries his head in his hand, too embarrassed by his brother’s behavior to properly congratulate you, or even acknowledge the news.

“I mean, I have no idea who’s going to be speaking,” you amend your statement, then shoot Mark a real coy wink, as if to say _you go ahead and insider trade this information._

“I’m going to win $200,” Mark mockingly chants, “I’m going to win $200! I’m going to win $200!” _I’d reveal any and all personal information to give you a leg up on the financial front, Mark. Anything to make the you smile in merriment like you’re doing now._

“When?” Jaehyun whispers after Mark is distracted by his phone, gleefully setting up his plans this weekend to have his boys take the fall.

“I had to get my scholarship sorted out yesterday, and she saw my acceptance portal,” you explain, soft glow of pride emanating from your voice. “The committee was literally ten minutes away from offering it to RM at his exit meeting.”

Ms. Hwang had asked for you to give the speech with no hesitation after seeing the tiny characters spelling out _Princeton University_ at the top of the screen. That sort of superficial decision making should’ve had you roaring to say no, especially with your aversion to making any and all speeches. But you’ve felt different since prom, a cliché new you, and you’d also accepted right away when she’d made the offer.

“I knew it, as soon as you told me you got in I knew it would be you,” Jaehyun muses. You want to tell him that for all accounts, it should’ve been him. Your two resumes are probably head and shoulders above the rest, and he has such an honest way with words that it would put the nonsense you have on the screen to bed. “May I look?” he asks permission, and simply because of that, you oblige.

You cringe internally as you watch his eyes scroll by the opening line, _Potential energy is defined as the stored energy of position possessed by an object. By that definition, we, right here, right now, possess the most potential energy we ever will in our lives._ Should you have not gone this route? Done some generic platitudes that everyone will understand and enjoy? From the expression on his face, you can’t make out if Jaehyun loves it or hates it.

“Red alert,” Mark whisper-yells under his breath before you can ask, “red alert, red alert!”

Out of instinct, you jolt to close your computer screen, as you’re programmed to do when your mother surprises you with a visit to your attic office. But Mark hadn’t warned you because Principal Ong or another administrator was strolling by.He’d warned you because Jungkook is there, already wearing a pleading pout on his face.

The simpering nonsense is halfway out of his mouth before you even register it’s him there, “Babe, can we talk, please? Please, please?”

 _You could’ve talked to me the week that’s passed since prom, over the phone or email or you could’ve even come to my house, because you know where it is_. But no, Jungkook’s chosen to do this in a public moment, in a place where everyone can watch, including the straggling group of your friends that is trying to resist the urge to film this encounter too. His pout has transformed to a smirk now, elevating his appearance - dressed in all lacrosse gear, his token symbol of popularity - into straight douchebaggery. _He really thinks my little show at prom was an out of character lapse in judgement, huh?_

Fine. This is a two player game.

You smile, inviting and open, and concede, “Go ahead.”

“Here?” he mutters, at maximum hypocrisy for bringing his posse along, but not allowing you yours. Jaehyun attempts for a second to get up, but you shoot him a glare so cold, _don’t even think about leaving_ , that he sits back down, obedient.

“I’m working, so….” you say, blasé, telling Jungkook all he needs to know, that you won’t budge even an inch from your seat.

This is already going in a manner he hadn’t expected, he glances back at Mingyu for a second, no doubt making a last minute decision if he actually wants to take the plunge. But after a few seconds of hype up from his bestie, he turns back and drips the nauseating sweetness all over you,

“I want you back, baby.”

“Back,” you feign ignorance at his obvious meaning as you repeat, “back where? Like in the back of AP Psych? I can move seats if you want to sit closer to the board, sure.”

“Baby….”

“Oh, or like the backseat of your car? Where I spent all that time editing your UNC essay while you were at practice.” You’ve done a one-eighty now, framing it in innocence-disguised barbs, to drive home the point that you were the magnanimous one in that relationship. “Or your backyard, where I was supposed to help _your mom_ transplant her rose bushes this weekend?” You intersperse your sentences with the flirtatious giggles, to induce the highest level confusion, so he’s physically taken aback when you growl out, “Surely you don’t mean back in a relationship, no? Because if you do, you might want to ask your coach if you need to go through concussion protocol.”

Your ex’s friends all look amongst themselves in surprise, like they’re unsure whether they want to explode in laughter or stick to their duty of defending their friend. He's not doing a very good job controlling his rage right now. Jaehyun has covered his mouth with one sleeve-covered hand, taken aback by the slinging retort. And then, you have the great honor of watching Jungkook’s jaw cord into displeasure the moment Mark bursts out cackling, actual tears leaking from his eyes at the hilarity of it all, “Sick ass burn dawg, take the L and go.”

“Real nice, y/n,” Jungkook grunts, “you have some random kid fighting your battles for you?” There’s no fight left to be had, you’d won a KO victory only seconds ago. He’s just under the delusion there’s still a war left to win.

Either way, you have the killing blow loaded into your hand, “No, but I don’t know if you want him to post that video of you at prom online.” You grace him with the fakest of fake smiles before sealing the deal on your subtle, but necessary blackmail, “So unless you want everyone in Newark to see it, I’d probably do what he says.”

Mark doesn’t have the video of you exposing Jungkook at the dance, he hadn’t even been there. You also know that Jaehyun would never film you like that and send it to his sibling. But the lacrosse player is one-track minded to the point that none of it registers in his pea brain, nothing matters except his reputation. Jungkook storms off, coming across more as a literal scurry or a waddle with a poop-filled diaper. His friends obediently follow, like a pack of mindless chickens.

Jaehyun finally manages to say something, disguised as a subtle cough under his breath, “Douche bag.”

“Tell me about it,” you mutter. Good riddance to that piece of trash. You turn to the boy across from you, who’s furiously texting his friends, no doubt about what just happened, and you give him a sincere smile, “I appreciate it, Snarky—,”

“Snarky?”

“Sharp rap god tongue? Rhymes with Marky?” you interpret the nickname you’d spontaneously bestowed upon him, thinking of his rapid-fire retorts and his interest in rap. Mark’s face goes giddy, like he’s been knighted or something. You give him the down low after that, “Anyways, he is literally not worth the oxygen. Just flip him off behind his back when you see him if it makes you feel better.”

“You’re….” Mark sighs in awe, “so cool.”

_I'm not, but you saying I am makes me believe it a little bit._

You take the conversation off of you, “How’d your doctors appointment go?” You hadn’t heard an update from Jaehyun after the weekend, though you’ve talked every day at the studio, and you find yourself genuinely interested in what’s going on in their family.

“It was great!,” Mark chirps, rolled up into a ball of pleased relief.

Jaehyun has a heartwarming smile braided onto his mouth, gaze full of fondness and no awkwardness whatsoever as he looks at his baby brother. You’re sure it’s so gratifying for Mark - for them both, really -to have another round of clear scans. You’ll keep your fingers crossed and imbue a bit more belief into your feigned dinner prayers to keep it that way.

“Hi, y/n!” Sana’s cheery chirp interrupts the serious conversation. She shoves you over so she can share your chair, not even taking stock of who you’re with.

“What’s up, Sanawich?”

“Why weren’t you sitting with us?” she asks, which is not her finest moment. A lightbulb goes off over her head and she turns to shoot a glare to where Jungkook is back at the old table, nursing his wounds. “Oh, right.”

She still hasn’t noticed you’re not alone, which speaks volumes to the importance of social stratification at this school. You widen your eyes in a pointed motion, a subtle glance over to your companions, and obviously, yet politely begin the introductions, “Sana, this is Jaehyun and Mark. Guys, this is my best friend Sana. You two have met at ballet class, I think.”

Once she realizes you’re there with someone she’s found hot before, she turns on the instant flirtiness, pigtail going into her hand as she leans forward with invitation, “We definitely have, but it’s so nice to have a name to go with that cute face.”

Jaehyun blushes at the blatant praise. Looking at it from an outsider’s point of view, they’d actually be kind of cute together. They’re both good looking in an elegant way, hair a charming contrast, nice height difference. You could make it happen if you find out he’s interested in her in return.

Also, if she doesn’t blow it with the uncouth way she turns to greet Mark, “Oh, and you’re the kid with cancer—I mean, ah, I’m so sorry.”

You’re not sure if Sana correcting herself right away will lessen the offense of her blunt statement. But Mark doesn’t seem to mind, he kind of wears it as a badge of honor, that he’s getting the recognition from two popular girls right now. “No, no. That’s me.”

She reaches over to pat his hand like he’s a puppy she finds cute and warbles, “I’m so glad our fundraiser helped you out back then!”

A stiff silence hovers over the table. _How long is class council going to take credit for this? Do they really still feel like it was the ultimate act of benevolence? Had I really been that good in concealing my manipulation of the fundraiser that now, a full school year later, they’re none the wiser of what’s happened?_ You’re not sure if you have the right to be insulted, but it really does feel insulting. And, of course, this is not a story Mark and Jaehyun can ever know, beyond what they’d experienced.

Sana’s done with Mark, she has more pressing things to do like cast her spell over Jaehyun, “I thought it was sooooo gentlemanly of you, what you did for y/n at the prom.”

“Gentleman? He only agreed to make her not look like an idiot,” Mark blurts with a cackle, poking at his fully embarrassed sibling, who sits there and takes it.

Sana launches into a diatribe on her new wave feministic ideals — it apparently would’ve made more sense for you and her to go alone together, yet she makes sure to praise Jaehyun for recognizing toxic masculinity —and you tune her out to keep working. The speech’s first draft is pretty good. You’ve conveyed your thoughts and feelings about these four years of school in a way that doesn’t convey your utter hatred for the institution, which you’d say is a success.

Then, your iMessage pings with a series of texts.  
  


> [12:34 pm] **piano man:** does she always blab this fucking much?????? christ  
> [12:34 pm] **piano man:** btw i can skip spanish and take u to ballet.  
> [12:35 pm] **piano man:** half my class doesn’t show up anymore. we can throw around conclusion ideas for the speech. which is already amazing btw  
> [12:34 pm] **piano man:** if u want  
> [12:34 pm] **piano man:** do u?????

You turn your head slightly to the right, past where Sana’s blonde head is bobbing up and down with the enthusiasm of her conversation, and you meet Jaehyun’s bored eye as he listens. You smile at each other, and then you mouth the answer.

_I do._

—

You try not to yelp when your mother yanks your curls into place for the third time, adjusting your red cap so that it will be sitting as perfectly as possible on your head. She’s already steamed your gown twice, plus once more in the shower, and you really think you can’t get any crisper in your appearance.

“Mother, as a reminder,” you say when she fidgets with the brooch on her Armani jacket next, “they will be announcing my college decision when they call my name. Please do not make a scene about it.”

She’s asked every day for the past week, suddenly refusing to be in the dark about it, and she starts up again now, “I don’t understand why you can’t just tell me beforehand.” 

_Because you’d make a scene. But beyond that, I kind of like it, having the world be in the dark save for me and one other._

“Just let her do what she wants,” your father interrupts, a welcome surprise. He even manages a small smile in your direction, “Congrats, bunny. I have some carrot cake for after.” It’ll be day-old, discarded from the bakery at Shop Rite that no one wanted, but it’s incredibly sweet of him to have remembered to bring home your favorite dessert for this.

“Thanks, Dad,” you whisper, pressing a kiss against his cheek in gratitude.

 _Class of 2020, last call!_ That’s your loudspeaker signal to join up with the front of the procession, with the teachers and not the students, breaking alphabetical order to sit in the very first row where you’d been assigned. For easy access to the podium and all, you know?

“Give me a clue at least!” She calls as you turn to leave without letting her check your hair once again.

You parrot out the same generic response, “It’s a New Jersey school!"

“Rutgers! Is it Rutgers?!”

You ignore that for the last time.

Your classmates are lined up by last name, snaking around the bowels of Newark Community’s gymnasium, and you hurry by your excited peers to get to where you’re supposed to be, not able to match that emotion at all. You’re frazzled, really frazzled, those ten minutes with your mother has only ratcheted your anxiety straight into your skull, your vision flashing with the intense headache that’s brewed.

That means you nearly miss Jaehyun there, only picking up his faint, “Prima donna!” by happenstance. You stop and turn in place to see him there in his matching cap and gown - with his glasses on, he is the pinnacle of academic excellence, the pride that Edison should be celebrating.

“Hi? I’m about to go on?” you say, happy yet confused as to why he’s stopped you.

“I’ve been looking for you this whole time. Are your parents here?”

“Yup. You?”

Jaehyun idly fidgets with the sleeve of his gown, then admits, “Just Mark, because Momma couldn’t find someone to take her shift. ” You feel your face fall, and he gently ribs you, “Don’t give me that look, we’re having a family thing after.” 

That’s so tough, knowing that his whole family couldn’t make it to his own graduation. Luckily for him, this isn’t the only one he’ll get. “Just have to wait for college graduation, huh, then you’ll get two of them,” you tease. He laughs heartily, knowing he'll have dual diplomas from Columbia and Juilliard to make up for it. But you sigh, thinking of the mayhem that awaits you in a more urgently approaching time, “Maybe I’ll just invite myself over, considering this has about one hundred percent chance of not going well.”

“You’ll be fine,” he reassures you. “You didn’t mess up at your speech when you practiced yesterday. That star bit we added really worked, I think.”

He’d stayed with you at the studio until eleven thirty last night, playing the piano for fifteen minute increments while you rehearsed Giselle, and sitting next to you for the next fifteen as you went through practice runs of your remarks. You think he’s a little biased — he’d googled the theory you’d woven into your speech’s conclusion, after all —so you can’t get too complacent with your cockiness. 

You deny his assumption, “Not, not that, I’m more nervous about Mother finding out I’m going to the _P-word_ than that.”

She’s going to absolutely unleash hell on you for keeping it a secret. You commend yourself for keeping silent about it to this point, where it’d be a big struggle for her to force you to give up your spot. Everything in terms of bookkeeping had been squared away, so she’d have to raise a huge nuisance with the admissions department to get your admission rescinded. Which, admittedly, is something she’s not above doing. You can only hope.

“You’re more than welcome over, then,” he concedes, in a way that suggests he probably would’ve invited you anyways. “I was looking for you though, because I just wanted to say good luck.”

You teach him the ballet colloquialism in return, “We don’t say good luck, we say break a leg.” 

“Okay then, prima donna,” he chuckles. “Break a leg. Break them all.”

In the same deliberate manner he had when he was intoxicated, as it’s now burned into your memory, Jaehyun carefully grasps your face in his hands, and presses one lovely kiss against your right cheek. Your noses catch when you pull back from his orbit, and you relish in the sight of his face for one more second before you really have to go. And to this day, you cannot remember a single word that is said in the opening of your graduation ceremony. Vice Principal Lee gives the opening remarks, surely full of platitudes about accomplishment and purpose. Ms. Hwang most likely shares her thoughts about you and your peers, being right there for your journeys every step of the way. There’s some politician from Newark that probably says something about reaching for your goals like he did when he was your age.

You still have a hand pressed to your burning cheek when Principal Ong steps to the stage once again and forces you, quite literally, to pay attention,

“We would now like to invite our final speaker for tonight up to the podium. Will everyone please give a nice welcome to the valedictorian of Edison High School Class of 2020…. y/f/n y/l/n!”

There’s perfunctory, light clapping from the parents and families in the crowd. These adults have no otherwise idea who you might be, not having the concept of the social hierarchy at your school branded into their brains. From your peers, though, there’s total silence - a spell of shock has been cast over the group, broken only by a faint _Whoooo! Go prima donna!_ you’re not entirely sure you haven’t made up. It’s a kind of wretched discomfort, this walk to the podium - the clack of your Michael Kors heels, saved for a year for this occasion after you’d splurged upon seeing them for $25. Your heart racing in your ears as your classmates try to figure out why you of all people have been chosen for valedictorian. You’re you, sure, prom queen and class president, but RM was accepted to _Berkeley,_ and Suho’s going to _Vanderbilt_ , and Yangyang Liu got into _Georgia Tech—,_

“Y/n will be attending Princeton University in the fall. We are all so proud of her!”

Everyone loses their minds.

This is a magnitude of frenzy unlike you’ve ever seen before, not even dropping the bomb about Jungkook at prom had fired up your class populace like this. Even from your spot on stage, you can clearly make out what they’re saying, _Princeton, she’s going to Princeton? No one’s gone to an Ivy League since Peniel got into Darmouth in 2013!_ You’re glad that, like your ballet performances, they’ve turned the lights up in the stadium so high that you can’t really make out their faces, only the generic blobs of gossip that you hear. There’s nothing gossip can do to you now, you’ve earned this spot, all on your own without a single iota of help. You deserve this moment.

“Hi everyone,” you start, easy, like you’re the politician from before. “Surprise?”

That sets off a round of laughter that buoys your confidence, like no one is actually upset they’ve been hit with this news. Though you suspect you know how RM is reacting right now.

“I’m not usually a speech giver. I think you all know I’m more of a let-my-body-do-the-work type person, if you know what I mean, there’s not really a lot of talking in ballet. I want to get graduated as fast as I can, I’m sure you do too, so I’ll try my best to keep this short.

“In physics, we learned that potential energy can be defined as the stored energy of position possessed by an object. By that definition, we, right here, right now, are holding the most potential energy we ever will in our lives. We’ve been waiting and preparing for the past few years, taking all these classes and tests to bolster our chances of succeeding in the future, but we haven’t done anything with it yet. We’re holding it in us, waiting for the moment that it transforms into kinetic energy, propelling us down the path that we envision for ourselves in the future. So much has been accomplished by the Class of 2020 already, we have scholars and star athletes and musicians alike, but we haven’t even begun to dig into that well of potential yet.

“At certain parts of some stars’ life cycle, their dominant energy source consists solely of that gravitational potential energy being expended, which causes an increase in its luminosity. It’s up to you now to figure out how you’re going to expend your potential. Maybe college will do that for you. You’ll find a subject you like, leading to a career you love, giving you a chance to make a real impact on this world. Perhaps your innate talents will be taken to the next level in your upcoming chapter, like a love for piano transformed into a seat in a symphony orchestra, or a long held dance hobby legitimized by an audition. Maybe it’s simply about meeting the right person, who knows how to transform that energy into contented accomplishment.

“I don’t have the answers for you, I don’t even have them for myself. The only thing I do know is that it’d be foolish to waste this potential energy on matters that are irrelevant. Do the things you love, be with the people you care about, and never choose anything different.We’ve worked too hard to not be rewarded, and each and every one of you is a star that is powered by your best source of energy — yourself. See you at our four year reunion because five is just one too many! Congratulations, Class of 2020, I’m so proud of you!"

The crowd detonates into a melee of screaming as you step away from the podium.

Huh. That had gone better than you thought. You hadn’t stuttered a single time, in fact, you find that you’re positively beaming. Your eardrums are blasted out by the incessant yelling as you hear Principal Ong trying to control the crowd. He gives up after a few more seconds and instead just extends his salutations to you and your peers. You get offered your diploma first, by virtue of being valedictorian, and when you move your tassel across your hat, you’re graduated, just like that.

You don’t dare throw your cap, because you don’t want to lose the tiny tiger decal you’d printed out and hidden inside the back seam.

You can’t find Sana nor Jaehyun in the fracas that ensues, once everyone rushes to reunite with their families. You stand by yourself at the front of the stage, soaking in the billowing stillness as people leave the facilities, and feel such a calm sense of accepting departure, so ready for the page in your book to turn with your exit.

Which, of course, dies when you see your mother beelining right your way, your father in tow. You can’t tell from her face if she’s upset with you or not, so the first thing out of your mouth is, “Please don’t be mad.”

That’s when you see the look in her eye is sinful glee, knowing she’s about to have the greatest gloating session in the history of the universe right now. “Mad?! About you being the valedictorian that’s going to Princeton?! Y/n, I’m only mad because I could’ve been bragging to Rachael for the past few weeks, come on! You got in to Princeton, that is God's blessing, i couldn't be mad!”

You’re annoyed that’s all she cares about. That her first instinct had not been to congratulate you for breaking the streak of Ivy League acceptances, or even to hug you or let your dad get a word in edgewise. It was to say _that_ and then grab your hand to drag you all over the stadium to find your best friend and her mother.

You’re beyond embarrassed when she interrupts the Minotazakis taking a family photo, to throw her arms around Sana’s mother in a hug and get right to it, “Rachael! Congratulations! It is so nice that our girls have made it out of high school together, just like we did!”

“I know, how time flies,” Mrs. Minatozaki chuckles kindly, making an error in thinking that your mom’s actually being genuine and nice about it. “And y/n, certainly a warm surprise to hear about Princeton. Ivy League acceptances came out a while ago, why didn’t I hear the news from Sana sooner?”

She’s always been more than friendly to you, having you over to the house for dinner, sending you flowers with Sana when she came to your performances. None of which can be said about your mother, who has what can only be described as an evil grin on her face now. You’re glad the other mother hasn’t chosen to escalate this into the petty, passive-aggressive arguments they tend to have whenever their paths cross. Which, come to think of it, are almost exclusively all your mom’s fault.

“Well, I um, save for my parents, I decided to mostly keep it to myself. Didn’t want the attention, really,” you mumble the appropriate sentiment, trying to stay humble despite wanting to relish in the ego puff for a bit.

You glance over to Sana, and she’s standing silent, tucked into her father’s hold. You give her a subtle smile, like you’d do when your parents got into their tizzies, but she doesn’t quite match it back. You get it, she’s probably upset she’s the last to find out along with everyone else, like she never mattered to you. It was never a personal thing to keep it from her, you’ll have to make a great apology and hope she’ll understand.

_I just, well, I just can’t mention I’d found it okay to tell Jaehyun and not her._

You’re hit with another layer of guilt when Sana’s mom actually goes above and beyond to compliment you, “I’m sure you’re used to it, all those awards and accolades and two time prom queen? Now going to Princeton as the top of your class? You’re the great star of Newark!” You wince, thinking of all the times Sana told you she felt like she wasn’t measuring up to her mother’s silent expectations, and now here the woman is, telling you that you have instead.

“Thank you, Mrs. Minatozaki.”

“Of course we cannot overlook Sana going to Rutgers now, can we?” Your mother needs to get the last, sarcastic word in, beyond pleased that she won’t have to ‘stoop’ to a public university. “The only shame in this is that our girls will be apart after all these years.”

You doubt she has felt an ounce of shame this whole time.

You feel obliged to smooth things over, to put on your civil smile and remind them, “Well, I’ll be making weekend trips to Rutgers all the time and I’m sure Sanawich will do the same, right?”

“Of course!” Sana chirps. You hate that you can’t tell if she’s being fake about it. You know you’ve talked about visiting each other, under the tangential understanding that you’d probably be separated next year, but you have no idea if that’s still going to be happening.

“Ah, Natalie, Natalie! How does it feel to know that you could’ve had an Ivy League daughter-in-law—,”

“Oh no….”

You break out of your thoughts to see your mother jogging after Jungkook’s family, calling after them with no abandon. The group of you can’t look away, like you’re watching a car crash in slow motion. Sana’s mouth tightens when she sees your ex take a step back in fear, just as her mother’s eyes widen, both of the fathers bored with this and wanting to leave.

You’d told your mother no details about your breakup beyond the fact that you did it for your career advancement. _I couldn’t be tied down to a man in my success_ , was what you'd said. She’d taken the news surprisingly well, probably stemming from the whole no relationship thing she’d drilled into your head. So, you suspect she’s rubbing it in real hard for him now, pretty much the only thing she’s good for at the moment. A bit of dirty work won’t be a dark mark against you, you figure. But the moment she turns to gesture you over, like she wants you there to show off, you panic.

“Dad. Psst, Dad,” you whisper, grasping at his suit sleeve like you’re a child again. “Is it alright if I come home a bit later? One of my friends’ family wasn’t able to come here today, and they’re having something at their house. We can eat cake together when I get back.”

He recognizes all the same what a mess this is going to become for you if you’re forced to go over there, and agrees easily, “Sure, I will tell your mother.” He puts a soft hand over yours on his arm, and sweetly says, “Congratulations, bunny. Princeton, wow.”

It’s only four words, but it makes your heart swell like you’ve been longing for. You hug him quickly, murmur quietly, “Thank you.”

You bolt right over to where you see Jaehyun and Mark loitering, clearly having looked for you. They’ve also clearly tried to watch this encounter from a distance to not call attention to themselves. You sprint by them, snagging Jaehyun’s arm so he follows, breathless as you yell over your shoulder, “My mom’s making a scene with Jungkook’s, we’ve gotta go!”

Mark reenacts the crowd’s reaction to your announcement as valedictorian the whole ride back to their house, not stopping his chattering even as you go inside, convinced as ever that you’re the coolest person he knows, “I honestly still can’t believe you dropped the double bomb of the century. Not only valedictorian but Princeton?! Princetoooooon?!”

“Cutiepie, who got into Princeton?” Jaehyun’s mother calls from where she’s washing dishes, still in her Punchbowl uniform.

Jaehyun swings an arm around your shoulder, ruffling your hair as he drawls, “Oh, just some random girl we picked up off the street.”

She glances up from her work — soap bubbles over her face reminding you of how Jaehyun had splattered pasta sauce everywhere when you’d come over for the first time — and she smiles brightly at you, “Really? You did?” You nod, still shy about the accomplishment, and she rushes over to embrace you right away. “Congrats, sweetheart. We can thank God for that.”

You three kids exchange glances at the phrase, but you don’t call attention to it, only hugging her back and replying, “Thank you, Ms. Jung.” Then, you raise your voice so the kids in the living room can hear to announce, “And because Princeton is paid for by Taeho Lee… pizza is on me tonight.” The matriarch of the family starts to protest right away, and you hold up a hand to stop her, “Don’t say no.”

You pull out your Domino’s app to order the pies, buying two extra so they’ll have leftovers, adding in the salty AND sweet breadsticks when Jisung requests them. Jaehyun sits on the couch next to you, nudging your side and asking, “Taeho Lee, huh? That’s some rich people money.”

“I know, it’s definitely unfair. But he is an arts man through and through, you know what his company does. And I can’t complain since my parents could never pay for it otherwise.”

You say it without a care, knowing he understands the financial situation you’re in as well. But you’d forgotten his mother is listening. She had no idea you lived a parallel life to her family, considering she can see the very obvious Louis Vuitton print all over your white graduation dress. So she hurries to deny you before you can order it, seeing that the total is well over a hundred dollars, “Oh. The pizza, seriously—,”

You hit the button to send the request in, and move on before she feels embarrassed, “Anyways, what are we doing this summer?”

“Summer camp!” Jisung warbles, not even breaking his concentration from Power Rangers.

“His kindergarten has free summer activities, which is great, so I can take extra shifts at the restaurant,” Ms. Jung explains. You feel more grateful than ever you can help their family out, even in such a little way as ordering them pizzas. She’s really doing her best to hold them all together.

“Rennie and me are going to Papa’s house in Florida! I’m so excited for Disney World!” Jaemin literally screams from where he’s sitting with Renjun, doing homework. You’re intrigued by the mention of his father without including Jisung, who you know is also their full brother. Jaehyun fills it out for you, his mouthed _custody agreement_ all that is necessary.

Mark shrugs and admits, “Absolutely nothing.”

It’s interesting that his mother walks over to squeeze his shoulder lightly at that. The reassurance is something that you’re not used to, considering you’ve been working the front desk at the studio each summer to save money, or taking summer school to get ahead. You’re not used to having the acceptance that doing nothing during the summers is something a teenager is supposed to do.

“Well,” you offer up your own answer, wanting to feel included in a family that so obviously loves each other, “I find out if I passed the audition for Princeton’s dance program in a few days—,”

“You mean when you get your acceptance letter,” Mark interjects before you can finish, met with a nod of approval from his older brother.

You roll your eyes, an unspoken _shh, don’t jinx it,_ to both the boys. You explain to Ms. Jung, “If I get in, I have to be there July first for the start of summer placement classes.”

“Wait, you’re leaving right after your performance?” Jaehyun whispers, only to you, wanting this conversation to be private. He looks upset, really upset, pink mouth tugging into a frown as he contemplates that you’re going to be severed from his life in a mere matter of weeks.

_You have no reason to be upset. This is different, this is not like Sana, this isn’t the end for us. We’ll see each other to our heart’s content, even if we’re separated by the New York-New Jersey border. We’re friends now, there’s no changing that._

You reach your hand over to his cheek, right where his dimple is, and jokingly tug it up into a smile. “Yeah, but don’t make that face,” you whisper back. “It’s not like the trains to New Jersey stop running in the summer. You can visit me all you want, piano man.”

He doesn’t look so upset after that.

—

You’re nervous.

You’ve been nervous ever since you and Lay met up earlier in the day to rehearse the second act pas de deux. Even though Seulgi said you didn’t need the practice and that you didn’t need to be nervous, none of that can calm you down. You can’t stop shaking, sleeves of your baby blue peasant dress fluttering around your shoulders, fingers unable to smooth out your curled hair, woven with flowers.

You’re so nervous you almost crack your phone screen after it rings out of nowhere. You can’t even hide the tremor in your words as you answer, “Hello?”

“What’s up, yo!”

“Mark?”

It’s definitely him, you can recognize the innocent undertones in his voice, “Good luck tonight! Big bro’s giving a private piano lesson, but he wanted to tell you good luck too.”

“Thank you,” you respond, hoping he doesn’t hear your disappointment.

“I feel so bad for him,” Mark sighs, like he’s forty and not fourteen. “He’s been working so hard lately. Anyways, good luck again!”

“I understand. Thank you for calling.”

Your heart feels funny. Jaehyun told you himself that he wasn’t going to be able to make it to the performance because of work, and of course you hadn’t protested. But you also cannot lie and say you didn’t hold out hope that somehow he was going to make it happen. Because that means… well, that means there’s no one here for you.

Sana hasn’t answered a single text since graduation, despite you sending her a long paragraph and a voicemail about why you’d kept your college decision a secret. You’d asked your mother if she was interested, hoping the burn of the Princeton victory had thawed her icy heart when it came to the idea of the ballet. But she’d denied you right away, and your father hadn’t had the heart to argue. Jungkook had already bought a ticket - you’d told the ushers to keep him out, though you know he wouldn’t dare show up.

Jaehyun was the only one left, and now he can’t make it either. Not that you’d ever blame him.

He’d added more work to his already full plate in order to spend time with you, to make sure you were comfortable and at ease. He had put himself through hours of what might be empty, useless audition reel filming, just so he could be of some relief to you. He had been in the studio, waiting for when you needed support, stepping in without a second thought. And he had done all this without you asking. This is your artistic moment, the moment when you channel every infinitesimal emotion in your real life, everything you hate to feel, right into your dancing. You have no room to anticipate failure. Everything will go perfectly, you’ll make sure of it.

You can do this without anyone, it’s in your blood.

By the time you spring through the door as Giselle, beaming smile on your face, all your worries have melted away. It’s easy to pretend you’re a girl infatuated with a boy, because you kind of are. It’s not exactly infatuation, you don’t think, but the subtle ribbons of affection have been tied around you for some time now. It’s easy to direct that into your opening frolic across the stage and by the time you get to the _he loves me, he loves me not_ scene, you’re swept up in it all. You’re not you anymore, you’ve transcended into that intimate crossroad where fiction becomes real life.

Lay is there for you throughout all of it, supporting you in your turns, acting with you perfectly. The two of you do not stumble or wobble over a step the entire time. The familiar melody of your solo sounds different because it's played by the orchestra and not a lone piano. But all of Jaehyun’s notes have been tucked into the conductor’s sheet music — so it’s played exactly the way you want it, slow and easy on some steps, demanding and sprightly in others, danced in the flawless manner you always present.

By the time you’re bourréeing across the stage in your final goodbye to your loving prince, swathed in a gauzy gown of perfectly white tulle, you can hear the weeps from the audience. You’re practically crying yourself, and you never get emotional over your own performances. It’d felt a bit too real - the wistful, heartbreaking goodbye, the idea of true love confirmed as Giselle said goodbye to her prince for the final time, content with saving his life in exchange for never seeing him again. That happy ending is not quite happy enough, and while you’d appreciated the storytelling nuance before, you can’t help but think it’s a copout now. That kind of sacrifice should've saved her too, should've allowed her to return to the real world with her prince.

But whatever, you’ll take your gripes up with Petipa after you revel in your accomplishment.

As the curtain closes, Lay gets up from where he’s kneeling passionately on the ground and runs over to you, hoisting you in his arms as he chirps, “You were incredible! They love you!” _Kind of you, to prop me up like this. It’s probably all for you instead, you’re the professional here._

The curtains open again and the corps girls take their bows, followed by Eunha in her supporting role as Myrtha. You grab Lay’s hand, take a deep breath, and the two of you slowly walk out onto the stage together. The audience is deafening, and they’re already standing. Shouts of _brava!_ ring through the crowd, and they won’t stop clapping or voicing their appreciation, even as Seulgi brings out a large bouquet of flowers for each of you. That only seems to incite the crowd’s craze. You put down the flowers to retrieve the conductor from the orchestra, pulling him up onstage so he can bow as custom.

But unlike custom, he is holding a spray of flowers for just you. You look back, and you’re confused to see you’re alone on stage.

“Y/n is the only senior in our pre-professional program this year,” Seulgi announces, from where she’s brought a microphone out of the wing. “She will be attending Princeton University next year, and I thought we should celebrate her, just a little.”

Oh, she’s schemed since you told her the good news in rehearsal last week. She’d been so excited she’d actually cried, and she'd posted a picture of you two together to the studio's instagram. At least you had her in your corner, you owe almost all of this to her. When you have your first principal role in your career, you’ll save the bouquet just for Seulgi.

Confetti explodes everywhere and you stick out your hand joyfully, watching it fall through your fingers. Each of the freshmen corps members runs by you quickly, handing over a single white rose each, and the sophomores and juniors follow with bouquets of their own. You start to lose control over the flowers in your arms. The tech crew, the front desk employees, someone from every walk of studio operations comes out onto the stage to shower you with admiration, who continue to cheer for you even as the curtain goes down for the final time.

Seulgi scoops you up right away, crushing you into a hug over the mass of fragrant blooms you’re delicately hanging onto. She begins to maneuver you right to the stage door, so you can take your turn through the audience, a tradition that allows them an opportunity to meet the stars of the ballet.

“You were sublime,” she compliments, proud of how far you’ve come. “Real prima material.”

“Thank you!” you burst out with happiness, hugging her side again. “I couldn’t have done it without you!”

“Yes, you could’ve,” she chuckles, but the sheen of tears in her eyes tells you she’s appreciated the compliment. Her tone dips into caution when she asks, “Do you have anyone here with you? We need some photos for the press site, and they’re asking for a… family portrait.”

You wince.

“No friends, nothing?” Seulgi asks in sympathy, more upset on your behalf than anything. You shake your head, sad. “Ah, I think I can tell them that’s not necessary—,” she starts but something across the lobby of the performing arts centre catches her eye. “Wait, no friends at all? Who’s that, then?”

You turn, and you see something you could’ve never predicted. It’s Jisung, in a little boy’s dress shirt and tie, holding up a sign that he’s clearly drawn if the misspellings are any indication, _y/n, u rok!_

Like a rainbow filtering into view after the loveliest summer rain, the rest of them turn from where they’d been chatting behind the boy. Jaemin and Renjun in their Spiderman sweaters because they probably couldn’t be convinced to take them off, Mark in a plaid button down because he hates dressing up, Ms. Jung wearing a nice Sunday church dress. And there’s Jaehyun, in a white button down with a black tie, no glasses, hair gelled back like he’s a rich patron of the arts.

You drop all the flowers down on the floor right in front of you.

He made it. Somehow he had made it, he’s really standing over there, he’s actually here at the theater with you. You’re stunned, too utterly shocked to move, but then Seulgi nudges you right in the square of your back.

You take one step, and then another, and soon you’re running across the lobby and jumping into Jaehyun’s arms. He stumbles as he catches you, not expecting the contented force of your embrace, but regains his balance to spin you around in one circle, then another. You’re happy, you’re happy, you’re happy. He puts you down, and you land right on your tiptoes, hovering in his hold. The two of you are unable to do anything but beam. Your added height puts your face right next to his, so close that his sunny smile crests right by yours. You don’t care that you’re right in front of his family and a hundred people watching this reunion with interest. You take his face in your hands, and you press a dainty kiss right against his cheek, leaving the slightest arc of red lipstick to diffuse into his blush.

“You’re all here?” you say with a laugh, your hands still on his cheeks as you look upon on the rest of the family. 

“We’re all here!” Jaehyun replies for all of them, voice full of nothing but mirth, fingers on your waist burning through the tulle of your white dress.

“You were great, yo, but am I a good actor or what? You totally believed we weren't coming!” Mark jokes, walking over so he can slap you on the back. They’ve planned this, they wanted to surprise you, all of them, together.

Jaehyun bends over to pluck something hidden behind Renjun’s back, and when he straightens up, you see that it’s a bouquet of lilies, the symbolic flower of the ballet. But more than that, they’re your favorite flower, that you’d only mentioned once in an off hand comment. He remembered.

“These are for you,” he murmurs, pushing them into your hands, more precious than the heap of flowers you’ve left behind.

“Ballet’s kind of cool,” Renjun speaks up then, and you’re grateful he’s broken his plane of shyness to even say that. Jaemin won’t let him have his moment, because he immediately bellows, “I like how the guy died! You died too, Mary Jane!”

All of you laugh at that, bubbly and effervescent and just, pure joy.

Jaehyun’s mother air kisses you on the cheek next, you can feel the slight hitch in her breath as she heaps praise on you, “Very lovely, and honestly, quite spiritual, sweetheart. I had tears in my eyes at the end.” Her mouth is twisted with emotion as she pulls back, you wonder what had been going through her mind at the portrayal of the love story.

“Y/n, the photos?” Seulgi’s polite voice interrupts the reunion. She nods her head in polite gratitude to them, for attending the show, and for supporting you, “Sorry. Thank you very much for coming.”

You don’t want to go. You know this is part of your duty of having a leading role, to take pictures for the advertisements that will only help the studio, to express your thankfulness to the patrons who had paid to watch your craft. But you don’t want to leave his family, not quite yet.

He makes the decision for you though, nudging his nose against your temple, and whispering, “Go. We’ll be waiting, don’t think you’re getting out of celebrating with us tonight.”

And you certainly don’t get out of it. Not even an hour later you’re leaned up against Jaehyun’s legs as you sit on the floor together, fluffing Jisung’s hair as he reads to you, quiet voice nearly drowned out by the twins yelling at the movie playing on TV. You’ve lined their living room with your flowers - you’d seen the way his mother glanced at them, like she hadn’t had the luxury of buying herself fresh flowers in a long time, and you’d given them up without hesitation. You’ll only keep the lilies for yourself.

A few minutes later, his mother comes out of the kitchen with a small wrap of tissue paper in her hands. She hands it over to you and you can’t help but wonder out loud, “What is this?”

“This is a family present for you, as a congratulations on your performance and for getting into Princeton.”

You’re overwhelmed by her kindness, you hadn’t expected them to come tonight, let alone have flowers _and_ a gift ready. You feel dumb, next, because the thought hadn’t crossed your mind to buy Jaehyun something.

“Just open it, we all picked it out for you,” he grumbles, sensing you're about to get worked up about it.

You catch the not so subtle whisper from Mark, _I gave up some of my bet money, too!,_ and then you start carefully undoing the tape on the package. What’s inside the tissue paper is a tiny gold hairpin with a glistening pearl at the end, a miniature version of the one Seulgi had given you as she dropped you off for prom. It’s far too much, something like this must’ve been expensive, but you know that they’ll protest your protest. Jaehyun plucks it from your hold, and his hand carefully winds it through your gathered up hair, pinning it reliably against the tie, warmth of his palm cascading right through your skull.

“Oh, this is amazing, thank you so much,” you breathe out in consuming gratitude, admiring how it looks pinned up in your tresses, “I’m never going to take it off, let me take a pic…” You raise your camera to your face, and lower it immediately, because there’s a notification on the screen now that hadn’t been there before.  
  


> **Status update - Princeton University Performing Arts Department**

“Y/n?” Jaehyun prods at your bizarre behavior.

“The audition results came out,” you whisper, suddenly afraid, not having any of the confidence you'd had that night he convinced you to send the video on a whim. _I can’t look, really I can’t. What if I didn’t get in, what if I made a mistake sending it so rashly, how embarrassing would it be if I spent this whole time thinking I’d get in for sure and didn’t._

“Give to me,” he orders, pressing your thumb into the unlock button so he can get in. It only takes him a half second of reading before he’s laughing like crazy, “You passed, idiot.”

“What?”

“Read it!” He shoves the phone right into your face, and you have to grasp at his fingers on the device to steady yourself out enough to make out the characters.  
  


> **Dear y/n,**
> 
> **Thank you for your video submission for admissions consideration to our Performing Arts Program - ballet specification. We very much enjoyed your first act solo of Giselle, it possessed an almost prodigious quality of talent we very much need here at our program….**

“See,” Jaehyun teases as he tickles your side. “Almost prodigious.”

“So pompous,” you breathe, reading and re-reading the message again. This is it, the final thing to set you up on the path towards the future. You’d gotten so, so lucky that they’d liked the raw version of the video, and you’re convinced that it was solely due to Jaehyun’s piano playing making you look good.

There’s a clunk of something glass, and you look over to see Ms. Jung with two champagne bottles in her hands, smiling proudly at you like you’re her own kid. “Well, I don’t think it’s a sin for you to celebrate the good news, so, these are from me for both of you. I thought I’d try something other than the wine.”

It’s funny, how Jaehyun’s pious mom is the one who’s fueled the only two instances of intoxication that you’ve experienced. But you can’t resist swigging the fizzy liquid right out of the bottle, lying on Jaehyun’s plaid comforter as you stare up into the spinning ceiling fan. His room is neat in the same way he is, covered in checked wallpaper and filled with music books - you could’ve picked this one out as his in a house with a hundred rooms.

“Is your mom cool with me sleeping over?” you ask to where he’s sitting at the headboard of his bed, preoccupied with not shooting champagne into his nose as he drinks.

He nods without a care, “She won’t give a fuck as long as we don’t laugh too loud and wake her up. It’s not often she gets a good night of sleep.”

You must be drunk, because the minute he says not to laugh you start cackling, then slap a hand over your mouth when you realize what you’ve done. You whisper in horror, “I need to stop drinking then.”

“No, keep drinking, I will too,” he presses, then takes another swig of his, the bottle knocking against his glasses in haste. When your eyes narrow, wanting to know what he’s getting at, he whines out the reason, “Tell me something you don’t want me to knooooooow.”

_Ah, you want to play this made up game. I’m glad you do, because I have a huge elephant of a load to discard from my shoulders._

You go first after you take a hearty gulp from your bottle, “Sana was mad I didn’t tell her about Princeton.”

It hurts, to finally say it out loud, that your purposeful deception was all it took for an eighteen year friendship to fizzle out like that. Which is existential in and of itself, because that implies your friendship had never been strong to begin with.

“You two seem like you have nothing in common,” he points out a truth you don’t want to acknowledge. When you glance at him like _how the heck do you know that_ , he fumbles for his phone on the nightstand and tosses it your way after he opens it to something, “She’s been texting me all week, who knows?”  
  


> [mon, 12:34pm] **unknown number:** heyyyyy this is sana, you want to hang out?  
> [tues, 8:58 pm] **unknown number:** there’s a party this saturdayyyy you’re totally invited  
> [tues, 8:58 pm] **unknown number:** i’ll be there ;)  
> [wed, 7:34 am] **unknown number:** do you think i look cute in this outfit? _[img690.jpg]_

There’s a strange lurch in the apex of your torso, a itchy kind of displeasure you’ve naught experience with, but you swallow it back to chastise him, “Um, you didn’t want to go to a party and get it with the hottest girl in our class?” Sana wouldn’t sleep with him, but she’d certainly let him kiss her all he wanted, what you’re certain he’s been dying to do. All the boys want to kiss Sana. It’s his turn to shoot you a look with no explanation, _why would you think I’d ever want to do that_ , and you shrug, “Though we’re in this weird rough patch, I’ll always root for my friends to be happy.”

_If you like her and want to date her, and that makes you happy, I’ll set it up myself. I feel the same way about Sana, even still._

He hones in on what you thought was an unimportant part of your sentence, asking, “I’m your friend now?”

“Yes,” you give him the simple, honest answer. “Maybe my only friend.”

“Before you, Mark was my only friend,” he echoes, in a similar, mirrored sense of solitary loneliness. “My turn, I’m really going to miss you, I think.”

This game has already devolved into a hailstorm of confessions, a back and forth of things you’ve been holding in for some time. You’re equally filled with trepidation and anticipation at where this might lead, and you’re trying to come up with a reason as to why.

“I already know that,” you reply, because it’s the same for you.

“In a _I wish I was going to Princeton_ kinda way,” he amends, which instantly makes the mood so much more serious. Columbia is his dream. For all these months you've known him the plan was always Columbia, then the New York Symphony Orchestra. You’re not worth giving up a dream for, you’re not even sure you’d do the same for him. Selfish, selfish.

“Well, it’s not like I’m moving to New Zealand. I already told you you can get on a train and visit me. My turn, I wish we had met earlier so I could’ve dropped all my fake friends sooner.”

"Mine now, I bought a ticket to Giselle the first week I started working at the studio."

"I kind of wanted to break up with Jungkook a long time ago."

“I’ve known who you were since we were freshmen, that’s how long we’ve been Facebook friends. You were the new girl in my gym class. You had blue sneakers.”

“I—,” you catch yourself before walking right off the gangplank.

To confess that you’ve known him since the beginning of this year would mean you would have to confess the other part of this story.You can’t believe that you were literally about to announce it with no preamble, that your intoxicated, tired, overwhelmed mind was prepared to tell Jaehyun your closest-held secret without thinking twice.

“Are you stuck? We can stop playing if you want, I’m getting kind of sleepy anyways,” he offers as he preoccupies himself with ripping the label off the champagne bottle, punctuated by his very loud yawn that bleeds over his sentences, “which means you must be exhausted.”

You’re not exhausted anymore, you’re roaring with adrenaline, imposing its will to remove the truth straight from your lips.

“Remember when our class raised money for Mark last fall?” you start, careful with your phrasing. The sound of his nails scratching against the bottle immediately ceases. “I mean you’ll never forget the reason why… but?”

Jaehyun leans his head back against the wall, eyes hard behind his glasses as he’s forced to recall that awful time for his family. But he doesn’t go in a direction that you’d anticipated, “How could I forget about the reminder that I was invisible at school? That everybody knew who he was and no one knew I existed.” That’s a kind of narcissism you wouldn’t have pegged him for, and maybe he realizes it's out of character because he shakes his head and switches his tune, “Yes, that money paid for a few weeks of groceries while I was home alone with the peanuts and M was getting his treatment. What about it?”

You blow out a coiled breath of anxiety and continue on, “Okay, so RM brought up the idea in class council, and please don’t hate me for saying this, but I pretty much shot it down immediately.”

“Why?” he blurts, not expecting that from you.

“Because I knew them, and knew the people at our school, and I had a feeling that it was all a performance.” You know he knows exactly what you’re talking about, the kind of performative activism that ran rampant through the media-savvy teens you went to school with. “He made the goal one thousand dollars, because he thought that everyone would pitch in, and we did get some solid donations. Maybe two hundred, three hundred dollars worth.”

You’d been so, so proud the populace had proven you wrong those first few days, checking the gofundme incessantly to see the little green bar at the top of the screen expand with donations. You’d donated fifty dollars to start it off - what you had in pocket change at the time, hoping to buy a new dress for homecoming. That didn’t matter, donating took precedence for you over new clothes.

“But the novelty of it died off, or Mark wasn’t popular or well known enough, or some kind of drivel that never made sense to me,” you divulge what hadn’t made it out to public knowledge. “And when it got to the night before RM was supposed to hand the donations over to your mom, we were still at three hundred and forty dollars.”

You’d actually skipped ballet that night because you’d been so ill with worry, unable to stomach sitting through a class when you couldn’t refresh the website constantly. But the meter wasn’t moving anymore, and there were no messages in the class council group chat working to rectify the situation.

Jaehyun’s hand fidgets against his glasses as he thinks for a second, trying to put it together and failing, “Wait, I don’t understand, we got the thousand though. I told you, I used it for groceries.”

_Here we go, don’t cry when you’ve come this far keeping it together._

You have to speak to the empty champagne bottle in your lap, because looking in Jaehyun’s eyes would definitely make you cry, “It would’ve been super embarrassing for us if we didn’t come through on our promise, sure, but how would that make you feel? Raising money for a kid that has cancer and we couldn’t even make fifty percent of our goal.” You hate everyone in your class except for him, he’s the only good one. You can’t even count yourself because you'd felt complicit in it.

“So I did what I had to, and I paid the remaining six hundred sixty myself.”

His head knocks against the wall in his haste to sit up, voice deepening into the pit of his low tone, “You what?”

In total, you’d paid for 71% of Mark’s fundraiser yourself, seven hundred and ten dollars funneled straight in from your bank account, leaving you with only thirty-four measly dollars in your savings. There was never a different choice for you to make, it was validated from your hiding spot behind the bleachers at the homecoming pep rally. You saw the way Ms. Jung burst into tears when RM had presented her with the thousand dollar check, Mark’s sallow expression lighting up with the first evidence of happiness amongst his falling out hair, and Jaehyun’s face - you knew him, even then - flooding with pure relief, and you knew you had done the right thing.

“Yep,” you confirm. “From my savings. It was basically all I had, but I’ve never regretted it. And I don’t think a single person knows, because I put it in the gofundme under a fake name.” You’ve dropped this massive load of information on him just to alleviate your sense of guilt, you never wanted to burden him further, so you lamely finish, “Now you know. You don’t have to say anything.”

“I’m not sure I would know what to say,” he confesses.

“Just don’t hate me.”

“I could never hate you for something like that.”

When you look up to see if he’s lying to you — because even with your monetary compensation, you feel like you’ve committed a hatable offense —your head spins with the rush of alcohol straight to your brain. You don’t know how you got that story out without slurring, let alone vomiting, because you feel like you don’t have control over your body.

“I’ve never told anyone this,” you idly murmur, fiddling with the neck of the bottle as you peer at his wallpaper instead of him. “And I never will. I swear on you.”

“What did you say?” he questions, a bit of curiosity in his stare as you’re finally able to meet his eyes.

 _Oh gosh, I should’ve never gotten this drunk to say something as embarrassing as this, something so, so, so embarrassing._ But he’s kind of relentless in his stare, like he won’t let go of that little slip of a sentence you’d tacked on. You set the bottle down on the floor, then tuck your chin into your shoulder as you think. It comes out dainty and delicate and just a bit wistful, “You know how sometimes people say I swear on, like, my dog or my mom's life or my grandma’s grave?”

His forehead crinkles with wonder. “Yeah. What about it?”

“The point is you’re swearing on the life of something or someone that’s the most important thing in the world to you, it cements the promise in unwavering reality.”

Jaehyun is looking at you like he doesn’t understand but doesn’t want to make a fuss, and you feel like your face might melt off. _You’re really going to make me say this out loud. That I don’t want to swear on my mother or father or friends or nonexistent pet, because that wouldn’t be the same._

“So. I said I swear on you, because you’re that person to me,” you admit, with a soft little laugh.

 _You are. You’re the most important person to me, I think you’re my very best friend._

His mouth parts. He gets it now. You’re so embarrassed, you’re so freaking embarrassed—, 

“I will never tell anyone about this, if you don’t want me to. I swear on you.”

You experience this strange sensation at his echoed swear, like every cell in your body has been replaced by a little ball of pure, shining starlight that’s quickly spiraling out of control. And that sensation is compounded by the way Jaehyun’s stare has evolved — lips parted with his heavy, effortful breathing, long eyelashes flitting over his cheeks as he blinks, drawing attention to the dark glint in his pretty eyes. The conversation whiplashes into a deep pit of dangerous territory. You’d been in the throes of an emotional confession and he’s just set it all on fire with the blazing intensity of his gaze. He might not know it, but the manner in which he’s staring at you is a depiction of an easily decipherable emotion.

Lust.

Like you said, you have no control over your body, and that includes the babble your mouth chooses to take then, crocked yet matter of fact, “I’m very drunk. Should we just have sex and get it over with?”

“S-se— sex?” he stutters, cluing you into the fact that he definitely didn’t know the way he was looking at you. The strains of the old him creep back up with his consuming bashfulness, “What are you talking about?”

“I mean, I clearly never have and you… haven’t either?” He nods, so, so shy, and the tiniest petal of affection for him unfurls in your heart. “It’s just an action. We’ll do it once and it’ll mean nothing in the grand scheme of things to get this out of the way. And you’re looking at me like you really want to.”

You don’t want to get to the point where you’re twenty something and crippled by the nerves of what you haven’t done, knowing that intimate enterprise is a looming obstacle you’d have to face in the first serious, adult relationship you get into. You’re here, and you trust him, so what bother would it be to you to experience it like this? Unless... you’ve somehow misinterpreted the longing stare on his face.

“But? D-doesn’t that involve like…. k-kissing you on the lips and stuff,” he hesitates in his answer, trying to reckon your lewd suggestion with your previous hesitation towards intimacy, all the while remaining respectful.

One thing for sure, though, it’s not an explicit denial. Game. Over.

You’ve never done this before, either, lowering your voice into the perfect siren song of seduction, “It doesn’t have to, figure it out if you want.” With a coy raise of your shoulder in his direction, the thin spaghetti strap of the tank that you’d changed into after the show cascades down over your arm, revealing a constellation of exposed skin that he can’t take his eye off of.

He transforms into this crazy person you don’t recognize, his glasses on the nightstand in a flash, an almost arrogant hand through his thick hair leaving it in an alluring, haphazard mess, the warm brown of his eyes descending into the pits of onyx. And his dulcet baritone murmurs your way, “Hmm, can’t say no to a prima donna now, can I?”

Then, he’s moving towards you, to the place you’re frozen in the middle of his bed. You didn’t think it would actually get this far, that Jaehyun would be coming to a stop in a spot where his bare leg can boldly press against yours, that his hand would ghost across the slip of your thigh so he can reach for your hip. He’s strong enough to use that one hand to relocate you right into the breadth of his lap, your hands catching at his shoulders to balance yourself.

His fingers move from your hip to thread through the length of your ponytail, gently tugging your head back so the elegant extension of your neck is exposed to him. After a reverberating pause, eyes locked into each other across the dwindling space between you two, he dives right into the crossroads of your pulse and your jaw, drawing out the tiniest of sounds from your mouth with his kiss against your neck. Then, his hands are all over you, twisting further into the hair by the hairpin you know he bought for you himself, grasping for purchase at your waist, pressing you even further into him before you can back away. 

He tears his shirt off before you can do anything, somehow he’s found the presence of mind to do so while he’s kissing you all over. He’s given you no chance to do anything in return, not even breathe, as you feel his lips on the line of your jaw, that spot on your cheek he’s kissed so many times already, the bare shoulder you’d willingly exposed to him. He’s unable to pluck out his preference from all his offerings, taking it all for himself, selfishly, eagerly. 

“Did you lie,” you gasp out as he nestles his lips right back to that mote on your neck, “how do you know what you’re doing.”

“I don’t,” he whispers against the skin of your shoulder, teeth grazing your clavicle eliciting a deep shiver of a breath from within your lungs. “I’m just figuring it out.”

Face is set into an expression of determination, he flips to lower you onto his mattress, you a particularly ambitious symphony he’s trying to master, his lips moving unfalteringly from one point of your body to the other. Your hands luxuriate through his dark hair as his hand careens up the hem of your shorts, then tugs at the bottom of your shirt.  He’s impatient, sure, so are you, but you’re having particular trouble slipping your tank off when he takes your knee in hand and presses his mouth against the side of it as he waits. The gust of his breath is hot upon your skin as he kisses your knee a second time and then his eyes flick upwards to meet yours after the garment is discarded. 

_Gosh, how did I never realize how devastatingly handsome he is? His kind heart only makes him prettier, I’d never let just anyone take a piece of me in this manner, he really must be so, so special._

His jaw drops when he sees all of unembellished you for the first time, eyelids fluttering in disbelief that he's been bestowed this privilege. Moving upwards on your torso once you’re laid upon his reliable pillow, Jaehyun does a curious thing next. He dips his head low over your chest, leaning an ear so it comes to halt in the very center of it. You are sure he can hear your heart pulsing, so alive only because of him. He turns back, nose brushing your skin, and he kisses a rosebud of adoration upon your sternum.

There’s nothing more you need to say after that, he finally lets you return the favor, finally lets you indulge in the sinful sensation of his alabaster skin under your mouth, his cute cheek and strong neck, the broad slope of his shoulders hidden under his baggy clothes. But only for a second more - because he’s greedy, you know - and wants to take his turn again to kiss your fingers, then your hipbone, and your cheek again, because you’re realizing now, that that is his favorite.

You'd thought it was an insane fantasy, that no boy would've taken your demented rule seriously. But because he trusts you, and respects you beyond belief, he does not kiss your mouth. Not once, the entire night, nor in the morning, either. And you think you might remember that for forever.

**tbc.**

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i 100% know u guys didn't expect this to happen so soon, and i 100% know yall are going to hate me knowing there's like 30 more chapters to come. which means only one thing....... ;)
> 
> THANK YOU FOR READING XO


	6. coupé: to cut

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> He looks like he’s been cut and pasted right in, folding in seamlessly to perfection amongst the academic beauty of the students here.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> SURPRISE EXTRA LONG CHAPTER TO SOOTHE THE WOUNDS OF NOT GETTING COLLEGE JH (disclaimer: because of dearm drama lol). YOU'RE SO WELCOME LOL.
> 
> 1\. theme and variations is a very fun ballet: youtu.be/OgCareuuxK4?t=1270  
> 2\. the lover scene is inspired by this AMAs performance that has lived in my head rent free ever since: youtu.be/SVY8I46dkb0?t=521

You fiddle with the pearl pin in your bun for the twelfth time, neither of the previous eleven instances inspiring any relief from your nerves.

You can’t remember the last time you were nervous about a class. Performances, sure, auditions, definitely - but you’d never been nervous to the manner you are, not even when you made it to campus in July for a full summer of evaluation classes. You can barely keep firm hold on the barre without thinking, shaking it into oblivion. You recognize one, maybe two faces around you, but for the most part you’re lost in a sea of beautiful, sophisticated upperclassmen.

“You’re in my spot.”

Your head jerks at the sullen intrusion into your thoughts over to a trio of boys that may be the most sophisticated of them all in here. The statement came from the one in the middle, lithe and princely, with a full shock of platinum silver hair elegantly swept away from his forehead. The one on the right has honey blonde hair to compliment a handsome, cat-like face and the other has beautiful black hair and a bright smile. All three of them are way too hot to be students here and all three of them are staring at your hand on the barre.

Okay, how are you supposed to play this?

 _You made a promise to yourself after leaving Newark that this was going to be a new era of you, remember? No meekness, no polite cover, no proper y/n._ Then, you’d arrived for the summer and promptly fell back into your old habits, not making any friends or even the barest meaningful connection. You could do that again here, or you could stand up for yourself against, what you’re realizing, is such a ludicrous comment to make.

“I don’t see a name tag or a seating chart.” _Oh… my god. Did I actually just say that? In that tone of voice? With that sarcastic look on my face?_

“He’s stood there every day for a year,” HoneyHair informs you with a laugh as his IceHair friend is scowling right beside him. You get it, Sana used to save you the one spot behind the piano every class, but there was no one here, and you kind of want to see yourself in the mirror. So, you know, you can be at your best.

You stare at them with a raised eyebrow and goad them on, “And that’s supposed to matter because….?”

“Freshman’s cocky, huh,” IceHair mutters, not even bothering to hide his full derision. You welcome it, knowing this person has absolutely no clue what kind of terror you could unleash on him.

“Lay off of her, for the love of god,” an airy, kind voice floats through the air. You turn to peer over your shoulder and see a girl your age, dressed in head to toe Gucci sweats, hair loose from her ponytail, the picture of put together nonchalance. She smiles at you in a manner that echoes the friendliness of her voice, and she advises you, “Just ignore them.”

_Aw, but I can’t stop, not when I'm having this much fun riling them up._

“Old man’s threatened, no doubt,” you snarl, creating such an expression of offense upon his face that you’re compelled to laugh out loud at it.

“Ooohhhhoooo, sick,” OnyxHair chuckles as he fist bumps with HoneyHair, “this year’s going to be fun if we get to watch this the whole time.”

 _Alright, let’s get started!_ the teacher calls, a woman who looks as young as Seulgi, with a wavy blonde bob and a mischievous glint in her eyes.

With a very firm scowl, IceHair scurries off to the lone remaining spot in the right corner, drawing confused glances from his comrades, who all start looking at him, and all end up looking at you.

You are not a showboat by nature. You don’t like to brag, don’t like to flaunt your skills, in literally any other scenario you probably would’ve hidden in the back and hoped for the best. But you wouldn’t be human if your competition gene wasn’t activated by all of that smack talk and staring. You have to be extra. You give your best effort - your arms are flawlessly placed, leg extension higher than ever before, going up to your ear with ease, dipping into a one hundred eighty degree arabesque.

By the time you get to the center, you’re brimming with confidence that all this attention has inspired in you. Your adagio is pristine and musical, you don’t fall on a single pirouette, managing to turn out four and five rotations when most of your peers cap out at three. It irks you that that trio of men from earlier are keeping up with you, meaning they could back up their behavior with their talent. But you train your mind to not pay attention to them, to anyone, really, wholly consumed with making yourself look the absolute best that you can.

It’s clearly struck a nerve with IceHair, because midway through medium jumps, when other dancers are switching in and out, you end up in the same group. Before you can push to stand right in the middle, he shoots you a harsh order, “Don’t go in the front.”

He can’t tell you what to do, but you want to confirm you’re not breaking another unspoken precedent here. You casually wave at the girl from before, who’s clearly eavesdropping, and mouth to her, “Is that a rule?”

“Absolutely not,” she confirms with a sly smile, before taking her place in the corner of the room to begin.

She has a natural ease to her movements as she goes through the exercise, light as a fairy with her landings and precise with her technique. It’s clear she’s been as well trained as you, and you do feel a sense of admiration and appreciation for her, whoever she is.

The teacher signals for the groups to change, and you drawl over your shoulder, “Apparently I’ll be going in the front, then.”

IceHair is taken aback by your confidence to the point that he misses the first two counts of the combination, and you’re already off flying by the time he roars to catch up. He’s pissed, you can tell by the grit of his mouth as you both fly through the air in sissones, out jumping everyone in your proximity, a feat for you considering they’re all men and are theoretically supposed to overpower you in this exercise.

You run to the mirror to get out of the way, not even feeling particularly fatigued, and then you hear it, a call from the professor, “You, in the blue.” That inspires a rod of tension shot straight through your back when you realize she’s actually speaking to you, in your periwinkle leotard and purple skirt. You’re worried that your cockiness has somehow gotten the best of you. But that worry is misplaced, because a prideful smile explodes onto the teacher’s face, and she instructs you, “Stay behind with the men again on the other side.”

Score. IceHair fumes.

“See you out there, oldie,” you tease, sending him a mischievous wink as his face turns beet red.

You’re under an even harsher spotlight for the last combinations of class. The professor hadn’t commented personally on many of the students, instead choosing to sit back and observe. But now that she’s called you out, you can feel everyone watching you, trying to figure out who you are as you leap across the floor, as you sail around in thirty two fouettes — one of the only ones who make it to the end of the music, along with the trio of colored hairs and the friendly girl — parting with ease so you can stand in the front to curtsy in reverence. You’re sure you’re breaking a whole host of hierarchy rules here, but you’ll feign ignorance until otherwise informed.

After you’ve gone up to thank her for the class, the blonde woman signals you forward with her hand, “Blue, one second chat?”

You bow your head to her with respect and again offer up your gratitude, “Thank you for class today, Professor. I’m y/n, I’m a freshman.”

“Call me Hyoyeon or Hyo, please. The only person you should address as Professor here is my traditional sister, who you’ll meet later,” she informs you with a blasé wave of her hand, coming across as one of your peers when she hunkers down on the nearest table without a care. “You did Giselle in your audition tape, didn’t you?”

“Yes, I did.”

“Why’d you come here instead of going for a company? I thought the board used prodigious in your acceptance email, which we tend not to usually do.”

_Wow, this is not going the way I thought at all. I’d half expected a scolding, a subtle reminder that I’m new here and shouldn’t be showing off in the way that I did._

You’re trying to be open, so you don’t shut her out of the truth completely, “Family obligation to attend college, but I’m sorry Prof—Hyo, I’m not sure if I feel comfortable sharing more. Joining a company is my goal for after, though. If I can.”

Hyo shrugs, running a hand through her bob as she goes to tie it up and start packing up her stuff, “It’s no matter to me why you’re here, I’m just glad you are.” She leans back to size you up one last time, then she’s blustering with instruction, “I’d like you to skip the intros and go right into our senior levels for all your classes, not just ballet. That way you can get your academic requirements out of the way early and can focus on honing your craft your final few years here. You’ll get quite a few good opportunities with us, I’d imagine. Not quite Giselle in Giselle level your first year, but maybe by the end you’ll get that principal role or two. We’ll get you to the company in New York you’ve been dreaming of.”

Your head is spinning between the guarantee of a leading role she’s already given you, no matter the diplomatic language, and Hyo’s correct assumption that there was a certain company in the city that’s ensnared your heart for over a decade now.

“H-how—,” you stutter.

“Everyone wants NYBC,” she tells you knowingly, like she was probably one of those dancers as well. “You’re one of the few that it actually seems realistic for. I look forward to seeing you in class.”

Well, if you’re not on cloud nine after that level of validation, what else do you need?

You walk out of the studio to head back to your dorm, not taking the time to stretch knowing that you have a laundry list of things left on your schedule for the night. Yet, there’s still that glowy smile pasted on your face as you reminisce over how well that class had gone.

At least, the smile stays until you hear the uncouth call from across the lobby of the performing arts building, “They kick you out for your cockiness?”

The trio of boys from earlier have obviously been loitering to get their chance in accosting you. You blow right by them with a sarcastic toss over your shoulder, “Clearly not, because you would’ve been kicked out a long time ago.”

A harsh intake of breath tells you your barb had landed perfectly, and when you hear footsteps racing over you prep yourself to get accosted with vitriol. That doesn’t line up with HoneyHair skipping right into your path and fixing you with a charming smile, “You’re in my intro to administration class, aren’t you? That’s how I recognized you.”

You blink for a second, trying to bridge the divide between ballet classes and your academic life, and you think you pick him out in the first row of seats, nose deep into one of your textbooks. No use in lying, you suppose.

“That’s me. Double major?” You’d planned to get the dual arts administration degree that Princeton offered while you were already here, figuring it would come in handy if you ever decided to open a studio after you retired.

“Decided to minor last year. Maybe she has a right to be cocky, Tae, she’s clearly smarter than you, too,” he calls to his compatriot with a hearty laugh, clearly the kind one out of the three. He holds out a hand to shake, “I’m Ten, nice to meet you.”

You shake his hand, and then OnyxHair saunters over, clad in his head to toe Zegna sweatsuit, greeting you, “Winwin, it’s a pleasure.” He jerks a finger behind him, to where their third friend is watching this unfold in disbelief and chuckles, “That’s Taeyong, since I know he won’t introduce himself.”

“Though he knows he _should_ ,” a stern lecture rings out through the space. The girl who’d been friendly in class bounds across the space even in her fancy dress and heels, so different from the sweats she wore in class. Ten blushes when she walks by, as Winwin laughs at Taeyong's scowl, but she just snatches up your arm and pulls you out of the building, “Come on, y/n, let’s get away from these annoying boys.”

“Sorry, you…”

“I’m Joy,” she introduces herself with such warmth. “You live in the other single in my hall.” You can’t say you’ve been socially present enough in your dorm to even recognize this. But it doesn’t make sense that she’s your age and seems so familiar with everyone in the class. Come to think of it, she’d even waved at Hyo while leaving.

“If you’re a freshman… how?” you ask, hoping she’s able to interpret the rest of your question herself.

Joy rolls her eyes, then divulges, “Taeyong is my idiot brother, and we’ve known Ten since high school. Both of them met Winwin at a summer intensive in London, now they’re all idiots together here. Tee is a sophomore, and Ten and Winwin are both our year.”

Wait, her brother? Taeyong was her brother but she’d defended you against him anyways? Interesting, indeed. You fill out the missing parts of her information by asking, “Where are you from?”

“Newark. You?” she answers, but then her attention is scooped up by the godly aura of someone passing by you on the street.

Apparently, you’re finding out that everyone on this campus is stunningly beautiful, and this man is no exception. He strolls along like he owns the place, in a crisp white dress shirt with a leather briefcase and red bottom dress shoes. He winks right at your companion when you’re in proximity, “Hey, Almond Joy.”

Joy goes demure and bashful, a change from her outgoing personality, and she murmurs in response as she tucks back her hair, “Hey, hey.” Once he’s gone, she notices your look of intrigue and blushes, muttering, “Long story.”

You suppose it’d be rude to pry this quickly, so you steer the conversation back to its original path, “I’m from Newark too, but the west suburbs. I went to Edison High School.”

“Okay, I know Edison. We went to Newark School of the Arts,” she tells you. You feel a slight surge of jealousy. How many times had you wished you gone there instead? “I got out of the placement class because I know Hyo from an intensive. I kind of hate it though, because I feel like we would’ve had a lot of fun together this summer. She bump you up to the advanced class?”

You’re trying to connect the strands of her personal relationships, her immediate kindness towards you, how you’re somehow still walking arm in arm like you’re best girlfriends. You nearly miss her question, “What, how’d you know?”

“I eavesdropped,” Joy confirms with a laugh. “But mostly watched you in class to see how good you were.”

“You were great, too,” you return the compliment, because you definitely didn’t see many others who compared.

You’re back at the dorm, and a big part of you regrets the walk wasn't longer, because it was nice to talk to someone new and not feel stressed out to no end. _First time for everything, I suppose_.

“Anyways, I’m sure I’ll see you around. If you want to hang out, I’m right here. No roommate,” Joy makes sure to inform you as she unlocks her door, a definite guarantee that she wants to continue this in the future.

You want to too.

You wave at her fondly and shoot her a thumbs up instead of answering, because your phone starts to buzz with a call that you need to answer. In lieu of a greeting, you get an eager, deep voice booming in your ear, “Well, how was it?”

“Hello to you, too,” you laugh at Jaehyun’s enthusiasm. “It was fine.”

“You’re really going to do that,” he grumbles at your lack of a detailed response.

“You’re really not going to let me sit down first so I can give you a proper answer?” You tease, then hear his bristle at being caught. You switch to a video call, his glasses bursting onto the screen, and then you give him what he wants, “It was fine. I got bumped up into the advanced level already, and schooled some cocky kids that thought I was just a bumbling freshman.”

He leans back on his bed with a satisfied smirk. “Ahhh, it’s hard for me to see why people would find you bumbling.”

“You’re also incredibly biased,” you point out, because he knows you better than anyone. “How’s city life? Your composition exam go well?” He’s been working himself to the bone since heading to Columbia in August. You’re glad these daily phone calls are a part of your routine, so that you can know he’s okay without being there with him.

“I got an A of courseeee, prima donna,” he brags, and of course you’re not surprised with how smart he is. He flips the phone so you can wave at his roommate, “Doyoung and I are celebrating in Chelsea tonight!”

He’d been randomly paired up to room with the pre-med student who was born in Manhattan, and they hit it off in an instant. You’d met him on one of the first FaceTimes you’d had after moving, and definitely thought that if you couldn’t live with him, Doyoung would be a suitable alternative - both of them quiet and studious with their matching glasses.

“Make good choices,” you warn him, though you know for the two of them, cut from the same kindred cloth, celebrating is pigging out on pizza and sleeping early. “How’s the family?”

“Peanuts are as good as ever.”

“Mark?”

“Healthy as ever,” Jaehyun answers, then the next sentence gets caught in his throat. He fidgets with his glasses in a definite display of nerves, and drops a huge freaking bomb on you, “Oh. Momma’s dating someone.”

You spit out the drink of water you’d just taken. “What?! No way.”

“The manager that works at Punchbowl. Older guy, nice enough. Turns out he was the one who gave her that wine and champagne she gifted us,” he gives you the details like he’s reading from one of his textbooks, detached to the point of derision.

You’ve talked about subjects far and wide since you’ve met, but he’s kept this one on an unapproachable pedestal, what lies behind the façade of familial attachment the Jungs present. You’ve done a lot of extrapolating yourself, that she seems to have a bad habit of not being able to be single, an even worse habit of maybe having more children than she should. But none of it you’ve ever been able to extract confirmation from him about.

And you also know the way you have to treat said subject, with coolly neutral support, “Huh, how about that.”

“He has a son that’s like twenty-two or something. Dude’s cool, works at an auto shop or whatever. I’ve met him a few times,” Jaehyun adds on, which is framed in just enough positivity that you know it’s probably the only good thing he’s latched on to.

“That’s … nice? How are we feeling about it?”

“Weird and sad and happy all at once. I haven’t really processed it until, well now I guess.She hasn’t seen anyone seriously since… Ji’s dad was around for the second time. And I don’t really want to go through that again. She seems happy, but that’s how it always starts.”

Okay, he’s really letting the hurt reverberate here, conflicted emotions warring in the way he can’t make eye contact with you through the screen. He’s probably holding it in for the sake of his siblings and his mental well-being, poised to unleash it only now, when you’re available to listen.

“It’s not a crime to want a solid father figure around, even if you are eighteen,” you gently remind him, trying to lean into having zeal in your voice rather than commiserate stress. He did so much for his siblings while at home, it would be nice to have some relief knowing there were two parents there when he wasn’t.

That part of Jaehyun’s heart shines through easily when his focus immediately steers away from himself, “It’s not about me I’m worried about really, it’s about the peanuts.”

“I get it. Don’t worry,” you soothe him, not wanting that sour thought to ruin his celebratory day. You make sure to throw in a quip that will make him roll his eyes in agreement, “I’m sure God will find a way for her. And for the rest of us, well, we’ll deal with it. Come, keep me company while I do homework.”

He finally smiles and he does with no complaint, turned cheek such a peachy sight on your phone screen as you both work on your assignments in silence, until he leaves with Doyoung.

—

The theme of the semester so far is nervousness, apparently, you can’t stop the anxious twitch of your fingers against the strap of your navy dress, the only one you felt okay enough to wear. It’s a familiar dance, from the strap to your French twist, making sure the pearl pin is firmly in place in your hair, down to the glass of water on the table in front of you, repeat.

“I didn’t know you were going to be here!” Joy materializes in front of you, draped in a gold mass of total luxury, diamonds dripping from her ears and neck, looking as expensive and beautiful as she does every day.

She air kisses you on the cheek, and after, you stiffly explain, “Ah, yes. I am actually one of the scholarship recipients.” You can’t gauge her reaction to this honest reveal of your financial status, so you throw in a joke, “Which is good for my parents because, you know, money doesn’t grow on trees and such!”

You wonder what she’s doing here, at the reception for Taeho Lee’s scholarship recipients, when it’s pretty clear she has money. But you have to remind yourself that she probably thought the same thing about you. She claps her hands together in affable agreement and chirps, “That’s what I say! Your dress is super cute by the way, where’d you get it?”

“Target.”

“No way, really? Huh, we should go together sometime then. I’m having massive wardrobe envy right now.” _Maybe Joy really is here on a scholarship, just like me. No wonder we clicked instantly after meeting._

“Hey, Almond Joy,” the familiar greeting curls warmly around the table. You glance over to see the same handsome man from your walk meandering by. He looks even better all dolled up in his navy pinstriped suit, hair gelled into a perfect coif, freely generous with the winks he sends to both of you.

Joy’s cheek goes flaming red in the same way, her response tiny and bashful, “Hi.”

As the mystery man walks away, you mumble your query to his retreating back, “What’s that long story? I have time, it’s not like I know anyone here.”

“Oh, thank god, I don’t have anyone to gossip with, which is also a long story. Maybe tonight you can sleep over?” Joy requests, dogged in her pursuit of becoming friends with you, which you still don’t understand.

“Sure,” you agree all the same.

“My comrades! On behalf of Lee Holdings, my sincerest salutations in welcoming you to our joyous gathering.”

Taeho Lee makes his way onto the small stage they’ve assembled in the lobby of the dance building, and he waves to the crowd who begins to clap. You’ve never seen the man in person before — you’ve only the pictures of him on the scholarship brochures Seulgi had given you and the images of him in the Newark Review after the summer ball he throws for the city each year. He’s a contrasting mix of intimidating and friendly, towering and handsome and not looking a day over forty. But really, you can’t deal with the pomposity.

“The most pompous thing I’ve ever heard in my life. Can’t he just say hello?” you grumble to no one in particular, not a fan of that kind of bombastic personality no matter who they are. You reel yourself in when you remember exactly who he is to you, “Ah, I probably shouldn’t be making fun of the man funding my college education.”

“Agreed,” Joy mutters, and you flinch in awkwardness that she thinks you’ve made a rude comment. Before she flicks you on the arm and amends, “On the pompous thing. I think you should do whatever you want and not let money handicap you.”

Taeho finishes whatever dregs of grandiose speech he’d been giving during this interlude, and everyone begins to clap, yourself included. You glance back to the stage to see he’s been joined by a stately woman with an artful tumble of curly black hair, and a preteen girl that looks just like Joy. The CEO smiles warmly in the crowd and addresses you all, “Please help yourselves to sparkling wine and appetizers, I’d love to speak to each and every one of you here. Enjoy and God bless you all! Taeyong and Sooyoung, where are you? Come up here and join your Papa.”

“What the heck,” you cough, unable to help the surprise profanity tumbling from your lips as the glass of your cup clangs against your teeth.

Joy’s striding away with her head held high, gold bird pendant pinned to the back of her hair, and oh gosh, she and Taeho’s wife have the same curly locks. Taeyong has the same sloping eyebrows that the CEO has, and all three of the children have equally reflective smiles. When they stand there together for the photographers, the icons of poise, of luxury and success, you realize you hadn’t read her right at all. Joy is _Taeho Lee’s daughter_ , which makes her kind behavior even more baffling.

“You just called Taeho Lee pompous to his own kid’s face,” Winwin drawls as he saunters up to take your friend’s _(what surely must be former now)_ place. “That takes some real balls.”

You grit your teeth in a full body cringe, hand flying to your forehead as you moan, “I didn’t know!”

“I’m not saying it’s a bad thing, haha,” Winwin waves you off like he’s not actually judging you for the unknowing comments you made. “He’s a good person but pompous is definitely the right adjective. His wife, on the other hand? Can you say Kaaaaaren?”

Ten appears beside him, to correct his buddy in his easygoing voice, “She’s not that much of a Karen, she’s just a bit uptight. And overprotective. And helicopter-y, so yeah, maybe a parental Karen.” He’s the still the most polite out of them by far, engaging in actual conversation with you, “Are you here because Joy invited you or?”

They’ll probably figure it out if you lie, so the truth it is, “Oh, no. I, um, I’m one of the scholarship recipients.”

“Right on. Me too,” Ten interjects with no qualms, taking you by surprise, because you can tell from the print that his tie is Gucci. “Ballet’s shittily expensive, I only went to our high school because of a scholarship. Tae gave me all his old clothes, what was yours?”

You’ve never had someone to commiserate with like this, who’s identified that there was some kind of coping technique you must’ve had to overcome the social struggle of being poor. Thus, it’s very freeing to shrug in return and tell him, “A high end thrift shop in New Brunswick.”

Ten heaps a whole loft of brotherly advice onto you without prompt, “Birds of a feather gotta stick together, hmm?” He glances out into the crowd, driving home the point that you’re all in attendance for the exact same thing, “You’ll come to know that no one here gives a shit about that stuff, because we’re all in the same Walmart boat for the same Walmart reason, you know?”

“Yes,” Winwin chimes in, despite the luxury he’s fit into, wanting you to feel comfortable instead. “Not even Tae cares.”

You doubt that, with the way Taeyong had sneered at you with a downturned nose in class the other day, had steadfastly avoided you ever since. But you’ll accept their words at face value. You try to pick him out in the crowd, see if he’s treating the others with the same distaste he’d reserved for you. You see that there’s a girl by his side now, delicately exquisite features only enhanced by the harsh blunt of her bangs, form draped in head to toe Bulgari.

“Who’s that?” you ask, wondering if that’s another member of their family you’ll have to police your mouth around.

“That’s his stunningly hot model girlfriend.”

Your eyebrow shoots up as you turn to regard Winwin and his pretentious description of the girl. “Seriously?”

“Seriously,” he confirms, sarcastic shake of his conveying his displeasure. “It’s like we’re legally obligated to introduce her that way. She’s a real life model, Bulgari, Celine, that shit. We met her in London, where she’s from, but she lives in Milan. All of that is true, though I guess the term _girlfriend_ is really a loose one.”

Ten cuts in, peering at you with his glinting, curious eyes, “Are you asking because you’re interested? I know we’re not exactly friends yet but I would seriously advise—,”

“I’m not interested,” you answer before he’s done speaking, injecting enough harshness into it that they know you’re not messing around with this. _It’s not like I’m seriously contemplating any kind of romantic relationship in any capacity. Least of all with someone like him, who absolutely grinds my gears with no rhyme or reason._

“Phew, we believe you,” Winwin sighs in relief as you watch the couple pose closely for a set of photos, lingering hands and flirty glances exchanged a plenty. “That situation is too messy to get involved in anyways, I can’t believe they’re back on after what happened this summer.”

That tidbit plus the revelation that _girlfriend_ is a wishy washy moniker has pricked your interest. “What happened this summer?”

“You don’t want to know. Italian yachts are no good, so much fuc—,” A very lewd word is about to make its way out of Winwin’s mouth before he completely transforms into a teddy bear of softness when someone walks by, “fun to be had. Chaeyeon, have you gotten even more beautiful over the summer?”

The young girl who’d been up on the stage with Taeho and his family is standing at your table in her matching gold dress, holly berry red flush across her face as she whispers in response, “Oh, I don’t know.”

“I think you have that prima glow. How was Seattle?” He asks her in full seriousness, like she’s one of your peers and not his friend’s ten year old sister.

“Fine, but Mama hated the rain. I learned Cupid, my first solo!” Chaeyeon answers in a whistle tone due to the teeth missing in her mouth, just like the twins used to do. Funny, that the Lees have three children that all turned out to be ballet dancers. It’s kind of endearing, if you’re being honest.

“I saw! Taeyong sent us the link to the live stream, we clapped so hard for you,” Ten sweetly tells her, showing off the close relationship they seem to have with the family.

“Joy, Joy,” she warbles, calling her sister over from where she’s speaking to a donor. Once Joy’s crouched in front of Chaeyeon, their gold dresses sparkling together under the chandelier, the girl’s small hands grab her sister’s face to ask, “Did you guys really?”

“Of course we did,” she informs her sibling, before beckoning you closer and doing what her brother’s friends hadn’t. “This is my friend, y/n. Y/n, this is my sister, Chaeyeon.”

The girl is precocious and friendly when she’s not embarrassed by her obvious crush on Winwin. She reminds you so much of Jaemin when she sticks out a confident hand and takes the lead, “Hi. Are you a ballet dancer too?”

“Better than me, Chae. Real Svetlana Zakharova over here.” It’s your turn to blush at the blatant comparison to the Bolshoi prima that Joy makes. She bends over to whisper to the girl, “Remember that Giselle I showed you? Yup.”

_It makes sense that my audition video for the scholarship had ended up in her hands by virtue of her father. But still, it’s strange, knowing they’ve discussed me like this._

Chaeyeon’s eyes sparkle when she recognizes you, and she immediately jumps to beg her sister, “Can I come to the studio to practice with you then? Please, please, pleaseeeeee?”

“If Mama lets you.”

“Ugh, you’re no fun.”

“Who’s no fun?”

It’s not only the ice in your glass that has your body descending into a cool chill. It’s that you recognize Taeho Lee’s voice and know that you’re only seconds away from a conversation directly centered around you. There’s no reason to feel like he’ll be ashamed, after all, he’d set up this scholarship specifically to help students in your situation. But can you be blamed for the scrunch of your neck, the brief close of your eyes as you prepare for this?

Joy leaves you no room to react or really even breathe, because she’s hugging his side and doing the requisite introduction, “Papa! This is y/n.”

You turn around with a practiced, confident, prom queen smile on your face and hold out a professional hand first to the CEO, “Hello, sir. It’s lovely to meet you.” And then to his wife, “You too, ma’am.”

“Oh please, call me Nara,” she laughs kindly after air kissing you on the cheek, coming across as the exact opposite of how Winwin and Ten described her earlier. “Are you here with the scholarship program?”

“Yes, I studied under Madame Kang at Newark Ballet Studio, and I went to Ed—,”

“Edison High School!” Taeho finishes your sentence for you, pride evident in his voice. You register that him knowing this means they definitely watched that video of you together as a family, which means Taeyong was probably there, too. Weird. “I remember your resume, it was impressive even back then.”

You’re already used to this kind of pseudo-celebrity, it’s the life you lived back in high school, back in your suburb. But it’s the weirdest out of body experience to be going through it here too, at this famous school with all of these actually famous people here.

“I’m sorry we can’t spend more time with you tonight, but I’m so looking forward to seeing how you flourish in my husband’s program,” Nara showers you with adequate praise, squeezing your arm with motherly support before she looks upon her own child to instruct, “Sooyoung, take good care of her, alright?”

“Yes, Mama,” Joy acquiesces, having already done so without needing to be told. _Come along, Chaeyeon,_ the older woman instructs, scooping up her younger daughter so that the family can continue making the rounds. You expect Joy to go along with them. Instead, you get a huff and Joy shooting you a mischievous grin, paired with a suggestion, “I’m so over this. Want to bounce?”

This is so not your scene and you’re glad she can tell. “Please.”

You walk back to the dorm arm in arm, in the way she seems to prefer. When you get into the hallway you share, you’re immediately hit by the overwhelming smell of weed coming from the door across from hers. The lacrosse boys used to smoke on their days off, you don’t mind it too much, but you can tell from the scrunch of her features that Joy hates it.

“Um, if it’s too… much… we can hang in mine?” you offer tentatively, not used to allowing people in your space.

She nods, grateful for the chance to get away from the odor. You’re a bit hesitant to show off your room, which is likely quite simple in comparison to hers. But Joy doesn’t seem to mind, taking in the minimalistic grey comforter, lack of decorations or much else, with quiet appreciation. You give her a pair of sweatpants to change into so she doesn’t have to stay in that dress, which looks kind of itchy, and finally comfortable, she flops back on your bed.

She flicks on some ABBA to fill the silence, and you perch on your chair, unsure of what to do. A few seconds later, she scoots over to shove her phone in your face, “So, let’s get you up to speed. Who in our class do you know?”

Joy has the screen open to the group photo you’d taken after the second class for the website. You find it hard to pick out any of the faces. You spot the girl who liked to wear her blonde hair in braids over the summer, “Chungha, but we didn’t talk much. I don’t think anyone else from our placement group made it to the senior level. Your brother and his friends, I guess.”

It’s a really funny sight — the three of them stand in the row behind you with their chests fully puffed out, Joy sparkles like she always does in the front and center, platinum bright smile bared. And you’re there off to the side, mouth set in a line because you were caught unaware by the photographer.

“Honestly, I don’t know much beyond what my brother’s told me too, but we can figure it out.” Taeyong no doubt got all this dirt because of his social status, you doubt Joy would know it otherwise. Her finger darts to a couple sitting in the front row, ankles crossed in experienced elegance, “We love Donghae and Yuri. They’re going off to the Netherlands together after graduation to join a company.” Next to them is a tall woman with a swath of waist-length hair, “Victoria is the most flexible person in the program, you’ll definitely end up being jealous of her once or twice.”

A hulking man in the very back row that had nearly run you down with his double saut de basques in class yesterday, “Shownu doesn’t like speaking with anyone until class is over but is a teddy bear once you get to know him.”A girl with heavy bangs accentuating her round face, “Yooa is very hit or miss, based on how well she thinks she’s doing. Tee says to avoid her, meaning she really must be annoying.” If a man as annoying as Taeyong is self aware enough to recognize that she’s even worse, that says pretty much everything you need to know about the girl.

Hyo is sitting in the very middle, blonde bob a beacon of power as she beams with confidence. To her right and left are a set of women that definitely look related, with thick black fringed bobs, and matching freckled cheeks. Joy explains the similarity, “Mijoo is a sophomore like Tae, but she’s Hyo’s niece, and that’s her mom, Professor Seo. She teaches pas de deux and almost became director of the dance program. The board chose to go with a fresh face instead, which is what most major companies have been doing as of late. Mijoo’s apparently harmless, so up to you whether or not you want us to become friends with her.”

You’re totally lacking the understanding of why she’s going above and beyond for you. You have to ask, “Why are you being so nice to me?”

Joy goes mute, the first time you haven’t heard her chatter happily. You can tell it’s a vulnerable bit of effort for her to admit, “You can probably tell what sort of… reputation precedes my family. I think you’re the first person who hadn’t given a damn who I was in a long time.”

_No wonder. No wonder at all. It was the same with me._

But before you can marvel further at your shared connection, you groan deeply, feeling the full heft of mortification at your earlier comments, “Oh my gosh. I insulted your father without even knowing that.”

“I agreed with you, remember? I’m also going to also make a weird comment, so feel free to kick me out for it.”

You doubt she’s capable of saying anything remotely non-PC to get you to the point where you’d act drastically. “This room is a say anything you want zone,” you concede, wanting both you and her to feel comfortable in this friendship. After all, hiding things had destroyed your relationship with Sana.

“A part of me also liked that I finally wasn’t the one that had the attention on me,” she says, quietly and full of introspection. “Like, for once I wasn’t the best in class or who the guys were fawning over, and it made me feel so normal.”

_I really get it. I’ve been striving for that feeling ever since I won that spot on Homecoming Court freshman year by virtue of whatever my peers had seen in me. But I don’t really want to sacrifice anonymity for this girl, no matter how nice she’s been to me._

You admit it to her honestly, “I’m sorry to say I don’t like that spotlight either, so don’t expect me to be happy in taking it from you.”

“I’m not saying that’s how I want you to act,” she denies, the shake of her head cluing you into how she’s just getting things off her chest. “I’m saying that it felt nice to talk to someone that didn’t have an ulterior motive in getting to know me.”

 _Okay, it’s time, you have to tell her your thoughts_. “I had that problem, too. Ironically.”

“I overheard you talking to Winwin. Did people not know….?” She tiptoes around the subject, her cultivated poise coming out, and you’re grateful for that.

“No, they didn’t. The side effect of a narcissistic ex-ballet dancer mother, whose career ended when she got pregnant with me out of wedlock. Kept everything to myself despite being the most ‘popular’ person at school and basically destroyed every relationship I had. But that’s seriously a long story, and I’m not in the mood right now.”

It’s blunt and harsh and definitely catches her off guard with the way she flinches, but you don’t want to sugarcoat anything anymore. It’s easier to rip a bandaid off than hope the gaping wound underneath will eventually close.

“Whoa, damn,” Joy breathes, taking stock of the streaks of negative emotion burgeoning through your closed off personality.

“Sorry,” you apologize quickly, hoping that you haven’t scared her off. “That’s a new thing I’ve been trying out in college. Being open.” _Being open with anyone other than Jaehyun is the proper ending to that phrase, but what’s that detail in the larger context?_

“Thank you for telling me,” she says, not attempting to pry more or dig for details, another note of kindness that she didn’t have to give.

If you were already thinking about opening yourself up to this, you’re pretty convinced now. Joy is definitely the kind of person you want to have by your side during college. She has that pure energy, the same kind of energy that Jaehyun had when you first met him.

You don’t want the spotlight to shine on you for this long, thus you turn the conversation back to her, “So, is it just you, Taeyong, and Chaeyeon?”

“The baby of our family is Taera, who’s six and refuses to leave home unless it’s for ballet class. You probably won’t ever see her at family events, we usually let her stay at our estate with her nanny. My oldest sister Krystal is a senior at NYU studying flute, but we’re pretty different and don’t talk that often.” She shows you a picture of them taken at last Christmas, all dressed in matching red and white Armani outfits, and you literally feel your heart clench. How nice would it be, to get the chance even once, to take a family photo with people who loved you?

“My best friend lives in New York,” you murmur under your breath, fascinated by their matching smiles. Even under the sheen of their status, it really seems as if they care for each other.

“Your best friend lives in Princeton,” Joy teases as she points to herself, digging her heels in in getting you to cave.

You do so immediately, “Yeah, I guess she does.” As she giggles in delighted victory,you snap your fingers trying to think, not recalling a face amongst all of these pictures, “What about that guy…? The Almond Joy guy? What’s up with that, is he not a dancer?”

She buries her face in her hands, words coming out muffled as she explains, “That’s Minho, he’s thirty, he's Papa’s CFO. Very much not a dancer and very much the businessman suit in the streets muscle tee in the sheets type guy. But he’s also Krystal’s boyfriend, they’ve been dating since they met at a company dinner last year.”

_That sounds vaguely like fraternization, but not my place to comment._

“Why did you call it a long story then?” Maybe you’re naive, but you don’t get it. He’s like… her brother-in-law?

“Because I’ve had a massive crush on him from the moment she brought him home.” _Oh. That’s why._ She laughs sheepishly as she takes in your shocked reaction, and hits herself lightly upside the head, “Really sucks that I can’t get over it no matter how hard I’ve tried! Joy, you idiot!”

She’s embarrassed and ashamed and seems totally relieved to have someone to admit this to. You know she’s the kind of person who would never make a move, she’s just desperately hoping that her feelings will melt away. It’s your turn to give advice, “I don’t think that’s a bad thing. It’ll go away over time. There’s so many cute boys here anyways. Don’t worry about it.”

Joy sighs forlornly, falling back on your bed to stare up at the ceiling in contemplation, “I wish. That would literally be the dream, but I also think my brother would kill me if I ever crushed on one of his friends. Keep an eye out for me, okay?” You nod, though you know literally negative people on this campus. She hits you with something out of the blue then, “Do you? Have a boyfriend?”

Your palms go clammy over your chair back, response congested, “No, not at all.”

“Who’s this, then?”

She has a picture frame in her hands, having spotted it on the nightstand by your bed. You know what’s on the other side, a photo of you and Jaehyun at your performance of Giselle, surreptitiously snapped by his mother when you were in no state of mind to think of anyone but him. You’re in his arms on your tiptoes as you peer up at his face and he smiles down at you. Between that and him in a suit and you in your white costume from Act II, it comes off as almost marital in this kind of bizarre way you’re realizing.

You counter with your practiced, innate response, “That’s my best friend. Nothing else.”

Her lip quirks like she doesn’t quite believe you, but Joy is nice enough not to say anything more. _Dancing Queen_ comes on the speaker and she pulls you out of your chair to dance to it instead, a firm kind of seal on your friendship that you’re sure will last.

—

The moment you put your bag down on the floor, you hear the groan, “Oh, you’ve got to be kidding me.”

You can’t see the face of the person who’s commented, but you see the custom Sansha shoes on their feet, embroidered with the initials TYL. You’re primed with a caustic dart by the time you stand up to see Taeyong at the other side of the barre, “I know it must suck to be wildly insecure about your age, but it’s okay. I’m sure your family is rich enough to afford a nice nursing home for you.”

“Oh my god, you’re too savage,” Winwin bursts out, clamping a hand over his mouth so his cackles won’t interrupt Professor Seo. The severe woman is at the head of the room beginning class, and you definitely don’t want to draw her ire. A total opposite of her younger sister based on her no-nonsense introduction alone and sharp manner of dress, you doubt she’d enjoy listening into this conversation.

You want to end it here, but Taeyong has to get the last jab in, “Why are you here.”

You feel obliged to take an indulgence into arrogance, to lift an eyebrow and challenge him, “You’re old, not blind, surely you’ve seen me in class.”

“They never bump the freshmen up this fast,” he mutters.

When you look behind him to see that Ten is standing at the barre across the way, you realize you have an opportunity to get under Taeyong’s skin even further. He’s smart and experienced enough to recognize that you deserve to be here. He’s seen you in almost a month’s worth of classes already, his arguments have a flimsy base of support.

“Ten and Winwin are both here,” you point out nonchalantly, then you drop the mic, “or are you just being a misogynist?”

You’re pretty convinced it’s friend bias, and not the manifestation of sexism, like, he wouldn’t care if his friends were promoted but would bluster about a stranger. Yet, you take certain glee in the way he goes squeamish after your questioning. He glances around to make sure no one heard you, and he hisses back, “I’m not a misogynist!”

“I know you know I’m good enough to be taking a senior level class already. So why is it okay for then to be here and not me?” You wait for a second, the dramatic pause making him squirm even further, and you actually raise your voice a noticeable amount, “Can we say it? Misogyny!”

“I’m not—,”

“The person you’re paired up with will be your partner in class for the rest of the year,” Professor Seo’s stern voice emanates through the studio, indicating that you’ve missed the entire beginning of her lecture.

“I swear I’m not a misogynist!” Taeyong repeats, drawing your focus away once again, this time actually looking a bit desperate to convince you.

You shrug carelessly. “Won’t believe you unless you prove it.”

“That can’t be good for your reputation, Tae. Gotta tell her the truth,” Winwin goads his friend on, thoroughly amused by watching the interaction between the two of you. Taeyong’s mouth slams shut, wanting to risk the hit to his reputation instead of opening up. The other man takes initiative to shoot his bud a lecherous smile and laze out to you, “Somebody’s just a bit butthurt because they know they’re going to have to dance with you at some point and will have to deal with no longer being the only one in the spotlight…”

Winwin has actually said it in a roundabout way to not throw his friend totally under the bus, but you’re smart enough to read in between the lines. The hidden context actually stuns you.

“Wait…,” you mutter, “you’re jealous?”

 _You’re rich, handsome, well known in this program, and clearly very talented, there’s nothing I have that you could ever want, nothing for you to be jealous about._ Taeyong doesn’t answer, but the way he can’t tear his gaze off the marley is enough.

Plus, Winwin can’t resist the opportunity to agitate his friend even further, “Of course he is. And don’t say it doesn’t matter because you’re a girl, we all know who stands in front in ballet.”

_He’s right, I know that, ballerinas tend to get a lot of the praise and their male partners are often left for dust. The sole purpose of a male dancer is essentially to make the woman look good, which I know must be a crushing blow to the ego of someone like Taeyong._

“You will do exams together, practice together, and learn what it means to have a true partnership. Most legendary partnerships start this way, with the first person you’re lucky enough to get a pas with. Look across from you, to whoever is on the other side of the barre. That is your partner.”

Like you hadn’t already known who you were standing across from, your head dumbly snaps to the side just as Taeyong’s does, and the moment you make eye contact, your _No_ slips out simultaneous to his, “I’m sorry, what the fuck.” And he immediately fumbles for Winwin’s arm, begging him, “Quick, switch with me.”

Winwin’s basking in the victory of Victoria being beside him by happenstance, and he waves Taeyong off, “No, thank you!”

“I’m not exactly pleased about it either,” you grumble, put off that he’s more bothered than satisfied he’s gotten a good partner.

“Quiet, everyone, so we can start!” Professor Seo exclaims.

You take a second to try and compose yourself into the usual excitement level that you’re at before a ballet class. But it’s too late to get in a good mood. This is officially a sour day.

It’s lucky for you that you don’t have to dance with your assigned partners during today’s class, so you lurk in a corner with a dark-faced Shownu and don’t approach any of the trio. Shownu is a great partner - he’s strong enough that he makes all the jumping lifts look light, and his stature gives him great stability to help you in your supported pirouettes. The pair of you are definitely able to pull off more than Taeyong and Yooa across the studio. He watches you, tries it with her, and when he only whips her around in four instead of six, the frustration carves its way across his face.

After the class ends, you grab your bag and stalk out of the studio before Taeyong has a chance to accost you, somehow at a level of enragement you’ve never felt before. _Gosh, he should feel lucky to be paired with me. Lay called me the best partner he’d ever had and he was a professional, who was this scumbag to even pretend to act jealous when it’s clear that he straight up just doesn’t like me._

You don’t realize you’re wearing your anger on your face until you’ve gotten to the library and Joy’s brow is furrowed in worry. You’re actually envious of her — she’d had her class yesterday and ended up with Donghae, which was unfair. He’d be the perfect gentleman of a partner. You sit down across from her and groan, “Guess who was assigned to be my partner in my section of advanced pas.”

You don’t have to say the name, do anything more than rest your forehead in your hands with utmost stress, and Joy knows. “No way. He must’ve been pissed.”

“Winwin said some total crap, like your brother was jealous of me or something,” you grumble to the desk, expecting her to laugh and say that it’s total crap like you’ve concluded.

What you get is a soft, “And?”

“And that’s a load of bull, right? Right?” You glance up and she’s staring at you with compassionate sympathy. You groan lowly, knowing you’re about to be hit with the sob story, “What is it, Joy.”

“He’s the only son, okay?” she sighs to begin, closing up her notebooks and putting her laptop to sleep so you can have this conversation uninterrupted.

“And I’m an only child.”

“It not the norm usually, but Papa is super traditional. Super, super, suuuuuper, and not just the way he never misses church on Sundays. The expectation was always that the business would get passed down to the oldest son, like it was from Pop-pop to Papa. Or at least I think they were hoping they’d get some sort of all-business offspring. My parents got five artists instead.”

It’s an amusing thought, that they Lees had ended up having five children, none of whom followed a path that they’d wanted. A flautist, and four dancers, and not single one remotely interested in the ins and outs of running a business. Taeho doesn’t strike you as the type to be upset about that sort of thing, though. “Is that bad though? Your dad made the scholarship and stuff?”

“They’ve never said it, but it’s easy to read behind the lines,” she laments, obvious that she’s gone through this struggle for some time now. She’s younger than him, but a fierce overprotectiveness clouds her features when she divulges, “To make up for not fulfilling their dreams, my brother tries to be perfect in everything else. Studies hard, dances hard, drags me to church with him to make them happy. That gives him such an insane sense of insecurity and superiority at the same time, he goes off the rails the moment anyone is a threat.”

Ugh, you hate that you feel bad right away.

“He needs therapy or something, because yikes,” you mutter, toeing the line between detached and insensitive. Hypocritical for you to say, because it’s felt for a long time like you’d definitely benefit from therapy.

“Tee’s trying to work on it, though it doesn’t really seem like it. I know he’s trying,” Joy gently defends him, as she seems programmed to do.

“I guess I have no room to judge…” you admit your poor sense of empathy, especially after the long, late-night talk you’d had with the girl about every minute detail of what kind of trash life you had in the past. “I told you everything about me.”

Just because the outer, gilded appearance comes off perfect doesn’t mean the actual alloy underneath is unscathed. You should know, because you’re the prime example of it.

She acknowledges that Taeyong can’t just behave the way he wants without any consequences, “No, judge away, until he learns how to control himself he’s open to any and all criticism. But you might want to cut him a little slack.” You don’t know if she’s doing it to convince you or she’s really enamored by her big brother, but her expression goes dreamy with fondness as she sighs, “I say this genuinely, you got lucky. Tee’s the best. He’d do anything for me, move mountains, win wars, all that, you got it. We talk about everything together. He literally ran on stage to carry me off when I broke my ankle in 8th grade during Coppélia.”

The story sends you right the memory you have of a different boy, who’d leave school just to drive his siblings around, who made dinners and checked homework and carried them around like they were his own. If Taeyong is half the brother Jaehyun is, you can’t suppose you can hate him that much.

“There’s a reason why every girl at our school and our dance studio wanted to be partners with him, and it’s not just because he’s pretty. You’ll see.”

—

Arabesque to the left, and switch, arabesque to the right, prepare, three pirouettes, a hop skip and with one graceful leap onto Taeyong’s right shoulder.

You hit the end note to the finale of Balanchine’s Theme and Variations in synchrony with the music of the recording. It’s a satisfied punctuation to your assignment for the week, one that you’re going to have to present to Professor Seo on Monday. You hadn’t spoken for this entire hour, but you hadn’t argued either, what you feel like is a step in the right direction. You’re at least trying to take Joy’s words to heart, and you know she’s probably had the same conversation with him.

You dress in silence and exit the studio together, intending to part ways in the lobby. But you stop Taeyong to offer up a quiet, “That wasn’t… half bad, I guess, but you could still help me whip around faster in the walking march at the end.” You’re you, and you couldn’t help the comment. It wouldn’t feel right if you let something that’s been bothering you slide.

His foot catches on a tile as you head out of the arts building, like he hadn’t expected you to strike up a conversation. He mutters, snide with an upturned nose, “I did it fine.”

“No, your hand was too slow and I could barely get to your other side in time,” you state matter-of-factly, trying to give him the information in an emotionless way, to not come off accusatory.

He’s supposed to walk you around the room in a big circle, whipping you from side to side in a series of small chaine turns. But he’d been a count off, and the last few runs had you scrambling to keep up with the tempo of the music.

“It looked fine in the mirror,” Taeyong counters, but he doesn’t fully understand, because he wasn’t the one getting whipped around like a human tornado.

“It didn’t." You stand your ground, then dully entreat him, “Please take constructive criticism.”

“I’m not—,”

You cut him off before he can make an excuse, “We’ve been practicing together for weeks now and you haven’t taken a single one of my corrections.” _It’s baffling, I’ve never seen someone so reluctant to accept commentary from his peers, only his superiors._ “Did you act like this with everyone you danced with before? Not trying to be rude, just genuinely curious.”

A burst of cool fall air envelops you both as you walk together, and he shivers slightly before admitting, “None of them ever corrected me before.” You snarl in derision at the cocky statement, an _Oh really?_ , and Taeyong shrugs, flustered for once, “People take me at face value, I guess. I don’t know.”

He rubs at his right earlobe, a gesture that screams nervous tic. The phrasing doesn’t need an explanation — his reputation precedes him, people look at him and see Taeyong Lee, ballet prince, and don’t usually attempt to to cross that line. Until you bowled right over it.

“I don’t know you, I don’t trust you. I mean none of that in a derogatory way,” you tell him, not trying to hide behind a proper face or a fake attempt to be polite. “You’re not my friend, I’m not yours, I get that’s there’s no foundation here. And I certainly don’t expect us to become close either.” You do know that if you don’t try at all, though, the inevitable tension will manifest in your dancing and neither of you will win. You make a big concession due to that, “I just… have to learn. But you do too.”

He rubs a hand all over his face, stressed with the topic of conversation, and his curse is muffled by the gesture, “Fuck, this is what Lisa is always getting on me about—,”

“What did you say?”

“Nothing,” Taeyong fusses, trying to avoid your harsh stare conveying that this was exactly what you were talking about. “My…. girlfriend…” He hesitates, trying to figure out if he wants to get personal with you, then ends up giving in, “She says I’m challenging.”

_I can’t imagine Jaehyun saying something like that me. Jungkook, sure, but never Jaehyun. And he isn’t even my boyfriend._

You scoff, “Some girlfriend.”

A tiny smile graces Taeyong’s mouth at your dismissal of that bothersome interaction. He adopts a lazy, flirtatious tone you’ve never heard before, one that somehow fits with everything about who he is, “What about you? Boyfriend?”

“Joy told me she tells you everything,” you remind him, that he’s not being sly by bringing up a topic that you know he already has knowledge of.

“She also has a history of trying to keep me away from her friends, so forgive me for trying to figure out if it was a truth or a lie.”

“Seems like she has a reason for it, no?”

“I’m not hitting on you. Why would I do that?” he says with full, false innocence, keeping his hands tucked behind his back like he’s a schoolboy just talking to a girl in his class. It’s easy to see now how he’s snagged a high fashion model girlfriend, with his flashy good looks and unsuspectingly coy mouth. He’d be totally hypnotic to anyone who wasn’t strong of mind.

Even you’re not super standoffish anymore. You do a drop of flirting of your own, a raise of your shrug-covered shoulder and a coquettish, “No boyfriend.”

Taeyong’s cat eyes flash in the sun, and the response comes out as an appropriate almost purr, “Good to know.” His gaze shoots to a spot behind your left shoulder, and his already pale face descends from teasing into icy discomfort. His mouth doesn’t move as he mutters under his breath, “Crazy lady staring right at us, twelve o’clock. Don’t look! Don’t!”

Too late. You’re already turning to see who’s at the front of your dorm that he’s somehow walked you to, to see…..

“Mother?”

It’s her, she’s standing right in front of the locked door of the building as she paces, hair a wild mess on her head, frayed Armani jacket askew on her frame. You shouldn’t have said anything in your surprise, because the errant sound catches her attention, and there’s nothing in the way to block her from seeing you there with Taeyong.

You push him away out of instinct and order, “You have to leave.”

“What?” Taeyong hisses.

“Leave. Now,” you beg. When your dance partner sees the desperation in your eyes, he nods in confusion. He bolts off into the quad just as your mother starts to storm over, managing to get away in the nick of time before he’s roped into this. You are so baffled by her surprise, solo presence, that you blurt-yell the first thing that comes to mind when she’s ten feet away,“Where’s Dad?”

“At home.” Which is your mother’s code for _He didn’t want to make the trip._

“So what on earth are you doing here alone?” You confront her, fully exasperated at her appearance here. _You gave me no warning or buffer zone to get myself together after almost four months of not seeing or talking to you beyond a cursory text message here and there about my grades. How else did you expect me to take this?_

“Who was that?” She sneers, like you’re a person she hates and not her own daughter. “New boyfriend?”

You ignore the question for one of your own, “Mother, why are you here? Why are you here, here at Princeton, and not home in Newark?”

“Answer me,” she snaps.

“God, he’s my pas de deux partner!” you exclaim, throwing your arms up in the air with frustration, pissed beyond belief that she’s come to this conclusion after seeing you together for less than a minute.

Like you’ve branded her with the devil’s pitchfork, your mother makes the sign of the cross and violently chastises you, “Do not take the Lord’s name in vain! Honestly, I’m scared if college has already changed you this much.” _It’s sad, really, that you haven’t noticed this change in my beliefs until now. It’s been years. I still don’t curse because of you, still follow all of your insane rules, since not doing so is apparently a sin, but that’s not enough._

“Mother, please tell me what you are doing here,” you state, firm with your determination in getting her to answer.

“I can’t come to visit my daughter in college for the first time?”

“Parent’s weekend was a month ago, and you decided you didn’t want to come because you had _church retreat._ ”

One of the only times you’d communicated with her since leaving for Princeton came when you’d gotten the email about the full weekend of events prepared for parents of freshmen. Your instinct was to scroll right by it. But the fresh dew of guilt forced you into the sending the message, which, expectedly, was met with an immediate denial. You figured she just didn’t care much now that you weren’t around to be shown off like a prize pony. Never did you expect she’d actually show up out of the blue.

Your mother isn’t one for sarcasm, so you wonder where she’s learned this caustic tone she’s addressing you with now, “I was having tea with Rachael and she mentioned that it looked like you were having a fabulous time in the studio.”

“S-she said what?” you stutter in surprise, not realizing that anyone beyond the tiny bubble of you, Jaehyun, and your few friends here knew about your double major.

She holds out her phone for you to see. “She showed me this post, which does not make it look like you’re simply doing it as a hobby.”

_What in the heck? How did Mrs. Minatozaki have this?_

This Instagram post is of you and Joy dressed in matching pink leotards and skirts. You’re flopped on the floor of the dressing room in exhaustion, hands covering your faces as you cackle with each other. Chungha had taken it as you rolled around with laughter, recounting how you both fell during your pirouettes at the exact same time. Even though you deleted everything off your account after graduation and figured you’d never really post again, Joy had insisted on putting it up, your first picture together.  
  


> @ **pixars_joy_story:** PFTO after marzipan rehearsal. who needs us for frat party entertainment?

But the screenshot hasn’t been cropped, so you can see the account icon at the bottom of the screen — one that’s shining brightly with Sana’s headshot. Which means your old friend specifically sought out your profile, saw there was nothing there after you’d wiped your account, and went snooping through your tagged posts just to find this and show her mother. Who’d showed yours.

“You came here because Sana told her mom about an Instagram post?” you burst out in disbelief, trying to reach for her phone to delete it but failing when she physically holds you back with her hand. “One that wasn’t even mine?!”

As her fingers squeeze around your shoulder, your mother growls in contempt, “I thought you said you were going to cut down on ballet when you went to school.”

“I never said anything of the sort.” You’d only implied to your parents that arts administration would be your priority, and enrolled in your classes when you’d been on campus already for the summer program. You’d showed her your academic class schedule and that was it, satisfied she believed you were done with ballet for good.

“Arts administration—,”

It’s so weird to get back into this headspace after months of freedom, to control yourself back into rigid you, simultaneously puffing yourself up yet also downplaying your accomplishments, “Mother, I’ve gotten an A on every single exam I’ve taken so far this semester. I’ve never missed an assignment, made it to all my classes, and I still got a lead role in the Nutcracker. I can handle it.” _I’m the lead role of Marzipan in the Nutcracker, one that Joy and I are splitting. We’re the only freshmen girls to get solos this year and it sucks that isn’t even an accomplishment to you._

“I see you out here with boys I don’t know, coming from the studio when you should be in the library studying. What were you really doing in the studio, y/n? Huh?” she accuses you, suspicious to no end that something more lecherous was occurring instead of _rehearsal._ Which is what you were doing.

“He’s my pas de deux partner!” you repeat with force, because Taeyong is just that. He’s not even your friend. “I don’t understand you, you want me to study, do this, do that, why can’t ballet be included?”

Passersby are watching this unfold, students crowding at a distance to take in the bizarre encounter. Your mother is basically holding you by your neck now as she shakes and entreats you, “No, I will not have dance consuming your schedule like it did in high school. You need to be out too, joining a sorority, going to social events, having a _healthy life.”_ Her fingertips are digging into your skin, it’s hurting, but her words heft the worse weight of damage, “If you don’t get a serious degree your future is going to be destroyed, you’re going to accomplish nothing, do nothing, be _nothing!_ ”

“Back the fuck up, lady.”

Your mother is shoved away from you in a hostile display of strength, nails ripping a cut into your neck as a third person enters the foray to defend you. Your eyes have shut out of habitual fear, you don’t know who’s come to your aid, maybe a stranger from the crowd?

“Who is this—,” your mother spits, before she recognizes the person and her tone dips into venom. “Oh, you’re that tramp that posted this picture.”

Your eyelids shoot open and you see Joy standing right in front of you, arms crossed over her chest, curly ponytail swinging in the wind as she stares your mother down, unafraid.

“Mother!” you gasp at her insult.

She cranes her neck around Joy’s frame so that she can berate you, “I can’t believe you would go and be friends with whoever the hell this is!”

“Mother, you cannot say that about—,”

Joy explodes, pointing a livid finger right into the your mother’s face as she advances. But while you think she’s taken the insult personally and is roaring to defend herself, she goes a whole other direction, “Say it to me all you want lady, but you’re a fucking idiot if you think that y/n will never amount to anything!”

_Wait, what?_

“Excuseeee me?!” your mother affronts, appalled that Joy is standing up for you like this. You’re shocked yourself, you’ve never had anyone back you up in this way, with no hesitation or request.

Joy bears down on her, like a beautiful goddess of fury, curses flinging out like daggers, hand curled in a threatening fist, face going purple with the effort she takes to yell, “God damn it, I’ve never been so mad in my life! How can you even come here and act this way, if my mother ever said this shit to me I’d cut her the fuck off so fast, oooooh I’m heated, you’re so fucking lucky she speaks to you—,”

You’re the lucky one to have a friend like her. You have to speak up.

“It’s fine,” you whisper, feeling the last drains of energy seep out from you but needing to get this word in. You don’t think anyone’s heard you speak, because Joy and your mom are still screaming at each other. You have to try again, a bit louder this time, “It’s fine.”

“Hey, I’ve got this,” Joy holds you back when she picks up on your attempt. “I have a lot more to say.”

She whirls around to resume her verbal assault. You put a gentle hand on her arm to stop it, murmuring first to her, “It’s fine,” and then looking your mother dead in the eye and solidly stating, “because I’m not speaking to her. At least not for now.” _This is far too much, I have to cut off the festering limb before it destroys me completely._ “Please tell Dad I said hello, and do know that campus security will block you from entering the dorm if you try.”

You take a step away from your parent, vaguely registering a tsunami of disgust upon her features, and truthfully, after that? You don’t remember much more.

“Y/n, y/n, oh my gosh.”

Your head is surrounded on all sides by the familiar cool feel of your grey silk pillowcase. With a groan, you open your eyes to see Joy’s concerned face hovering in your vision. Grasping her hand to give you support in sitting upright, your mouth feels cottony as you mumble, “What happened? I think I blacked out.”

“You fainted for a second, I caught you before you fell, opened your room with your keys.” Joy passes you your water bottle from the night stand, and when you see the picture frame beside it, you’re itching to get on the phone, almost a desperate need to do so.

You think for a moment about her schedule, though with the events of the past hour, you are finding it hard to do so. “Don’t you have contemporary right now?”

“Tee called me saying there was some crazy lady outside our dorm. I ran. Like, literally bolted. Are you okay? I think she left.” Joy’s voice is shaking with adrenaline, not expecting to be caught in a confrontation like that. And you’re baffled beyond belief to know that Taeyong was the one who called her to assist you. What?

“No,” you admit, because you know you’re in a state of shock yourself and haven’t processed any of it. “But you should go to class.”

“Fuck class,” she spits, wanting to stay here and take care of you.

You grab her hand, holding it tightly to your chest in hope that she can feel the errant gratitude spilling over from your heart. She’s tearing up, black eyes glittering with diamond sadness on your behalf. You’re touched with an incredible weight of gratitude that she’s defended you, this is the moment you know you’ve found a friend for life.

“Joy. Thank you. Thank you so, so much,” you whisper as you hug her, “but go to class.”

You don’t want her to get an attendance demerit on your behalf. And there’s someone you need to call.

The door isn’t even closed behind her before your phone is ringing, which connects into a video of Jaehyun’s chin as he runs through the streets of New York. “Hey, prima donna, I’m about to go into an aural theory exam, can I call you back?”

Your heart deflates just a little, but it’s not his fault. “Yeah,” you sigh. “Yeah, okay. Good luck, Jae.”

He screeches to a halt in the middle of the sidewalk, eyes darting down to the screen to examine you. When he doesn’t like what he sees, he presses, “What’s wrong.”

“Nothing. You can go, I don’t want to keep you.”

He squints through his glasses, taking in your haphazard appearance — pearl pin askew in your bun, hair everywhere, still in your leotard and tights even though he knows you’ve been done with rehearsal for some time, because you’d texted him when you left.

“You look like you just got hit by a Mack truck,” he points out, then his tone goes deadly quiet when he sees something else, “Is that a cut on your neck.”

Your hand flies to cover the angry red marking, as soon as you go a bit woozy with the sight of blood, stuttering, “J-Jae, I—,”

Jaehyun parks himself under the awning of a Wendy’s that’s on the street, and entreats you, “You know I’m smart enough to not need the extra ten minutes it’ll take you to tell me. So tell me.”

“My mom showed up,” you whisper.

“At school?!” he practically shouts in return.

You nod. “Yeah, which means she went through the stuff I left at home to figure out where my dorm is. And… I think I cut her off.”

The video on his end quakes, like he’s almost dropped his phone in surprise. When it returns to his face, he’s gone deathly pale. “O-oh my god.”

You’re losing it, you can’t control the flood of words bursting out of you as you tell Jaehyun each itty bitty, horrific detail, “She found out through Sana somehow that I was actually studying dance, so she manhandled me while calling me basically nothing, then she insulted probably my only friend here, lost her mind thinking I was dating that cocky guy I told you I have pas de deux with, and I just freaked out.”

Jaehyun is incensed, teeth bared with fury as he grits out, “What did you say to her?”

 _What did I say to her?_ You need to think carefully, your final assertion lost in the burgeoning haze of heartbreak, “I think I said I didn’t want to speak to her for a while. And that campus security would arrest her if she tried to get into my dorm, which I have no idea if it’s true or not.” Joy said she left, but you have no energy in you to go out and check. You can only hope that she’s not still prowling outside.

“Damn,” Jaehyun breathes, before his dimples pop with his grin. “I’m so proud of you.”

“W-what?”

“I’m proud of you, p.d.,” he shortens your nickname to something even cuter, and it’s not hard to feel less upset when he shows up for you like this. “Giving family the shove is hard as shit, but you know it was the right thing to do.”

_Was it? I’m totally filled with guilt right now, that I’d talked to my mother in that manner, that I allowed Joy to do so for me. That I’d acted irrationally and shoved the gate closed without even trying to be diplomatic about it, which means, by proxy, I’ve also shut my father out of my life. And he’ll have to hear it from her. What have I done?_

“Then why do I feel so terrible?” you sniff, staring up at the ceiling to prevent your tears from dripping onto your cheeks.

“It’s because you gave family the shove,” Jaehyun re-emphasizes the fact you’d made an egregiously hard decision. “You’ll feel better about it soon, I promise.”

_How does he always know what to say?_

“I don’t know if I will,” you admit, feeling sadder than you have in a long time. Your poor, poor father. He’s going to hate you forever for this.

“You trust me, right?” Jaehyun asks. You don’t answer, caught up in the thoughts of your dad. Jaehyun presses his face right into the camera so that all you get is his black fringe, and you nod. He pulls back with a knowing smile, “Then you have to trust what I say, too. I swear on you that it will be okay.”

“Okay,” you cave, echoing it back as you always do. “I’ll be okay, I swear on you.”

“I’ve really got to go, I’m a genius but fifteen minutes is pressing it,” he brags. When you giggle, he laughs, accomplished in his goal to make you smile once more.

You send him off with a melodious twinkle of giggles, continually enchanted by everything he is, “Go, be your wonderful self. And thank you.”

A taxi honks just as he says it, but you hear his nonchalant closing statement with precise clarity, “Anything for you.”

—

Just as you’re about to put your pearl pin in your bun, primed to leave for rehearsal, your phone lights up in an audio call. You want to see Jaehyun’s face, you’re selfish, whatever, but hearing his voice is suitable enough.

"Hey.”

“You feeling better?” he answers, in lieu of a greeting.

He’s concerned, sure, he always is. But you know the bigger part of him is waiting to see if he can lord it over you with teasing charm that he was right. You grumble good-naturedly, “I’ll concede that I’m feeling better, just as you said I would.”

“What was that?”

“Ugh, don’t be cocky and try to rub it in my face that you were right.”

You think he’s doing this to get you to repeat yourself, maybe to save on a recording for blackmail. But his audio actually cuts out slightly, and his pitch increases as he tries to stay on the call, “What? I can’t hear you, what are you saying?”

“Jae—,” You press the receiver of the phone right up against your mouth and ask, “Can you hear me?” He can’t, as evidenced by the way he yells over you before you’re finished, _Can you hear me? Where are you? Can you get better service?_ You grab your keys and head to the door as fast as you can before the call clicks dead, “Hold on, let me leave my room—,”

The moment you step past the threshold, you collide with the broad frame of one of your hallmates. Or you think it’s your hallmate, until you look up and see a familiar pair of glasses.

It’s Jaehyun — backpack in hand, phone to his ear — smiling down on you like he’s the brilliant fall sun taking a turn in human form.

“Hi,” he breezes.

“W-what? What are you doing here?!” you fumble over the words, blinking hard. You’re sure you’ve conjured up the sight of him here in New Jersey. But when your eyelashes peel apart again, he’s still standing there, grinning at you with full amusement.

“You told me you got into a fight with your mom,” he explains, but not really.

You ask it a bit dumbly, not sure you’re understanding it right, “I got into a fight with my mom, so you came here all the way from the city?”

“Just for the day, because I have another exam on Monday and need tomorrow to study,” he clarifies. Then, he bends over you to snatch the pin that’s still clutched in your hand and takes a step even closer to your frame. His lip goes between his teeth in concentration as he reaches behind you, lithe fingers warm against your head as he tucks the pin he’d bought for you right in your hair. He hums lightly, “But yes. Had to make sure you were happy.”

_Joy is my best friend at Princeton, sure. But my absolute best friend in the whole entire world, for forever, is Jaehyun Jung. Nothing can change that._

You leap into his arms before he’s even pulled away from fixing your hair, blasting out his ear with your excited warbles, “Oh my gosh. Hi. Hi, hi, hi, hi.” He spins you around with aimless enthusiasm as you continue to chatter, “I can’t believe you’re here, I’m so excited that this is your first time!” You hug him extra tight, luminous cheek pressed right against his shoulder and sigh, “I want to show you everything!”

You haven’t seen him since the end of school, haven’t had the time to take the train to New York or drag him down here. It’s nothing short of amazing to get to share this with him in person for once, not over the phone.That is… until your phone pings with a calendar reminder. Your smile against his torso dissipates so quickly he actually pulls back at the sensation, trying to figure out the switch in your moods.

You groan lowly, hating yourself for once for taking on such a full schedule, “Oh, but I have to work, Jae, I have so much to do.”

“I expected nothing less,” he says in between his chuckles, thoroughly amused yet unsurprised that you’re unwilling to drop the day just because he’s appeared at your school. He tilts a confident head, eyeing you with something you can’t place, making a flush creep up your neck, then muses, “I do have four years to see all that everything, I suppose.” Cocky bastard. He knows this is only the first of infinite trips you’re going to be making back and forth between the universities. “Just take me to the dance studio because I know that’s where you need to go.”

_He always knows._

“I do… have private studio time right now,” you admit.

“Let’s go, give me your bag.”

Together, with your dance duffel over his shoulder and your phone in hand ready to take pictures of him by all the landmarks you point out, you and Jaehyun walk the lovely, foliage-filled fifteen minutes to the dance studios. He looks like he’s been cut and pasted right in, folding in seamlessly to perfection amongst the academic beauty of the students here. You swear on your own life that you will never show anyone the thirty photos you end up with on your camera roll, of Jaehyun in his maroon plaid vest, haloed in the background by the changing leaves of the maple trees.

He beelines right towards the piano in the corner once you’ve unlocked the dark studio, feeling most at home sat upon a bench, no matter where he is. As you work through your warmups and put on your shoes, he asks, “What do you have to practice today, prima donna? Your favorite Nutcracker?”

_He even still remembers what my favorite ballet is. See? Best friend._

“Ugh, no, I wish, but that’s tomorrow,” you grumble, lying back on the floor for a second to actually soak in how behind you are on this specific assignment. “For my choreography composition class, I have to come up with something on my own with what we’ve learned. I thought great, I’ll do something that's classic, but then we had to pick our genre out of a hat. I picked _contemporary_ and how on earth do I even do that, I’m supposed to have a proposal by tonight…”

You’re not a creative genius, you’re just a vessel for that work. Though you know a lot of dancers end up going that route, you’d be perfectly pleased to never have to dabble in choreography again. Especially something that’s not your standard Petipa or Balanchine, that’ll probably end up being abstract and gritty and really the kind of dancing you hate doing. You have to have an idea by tonight, otherwise you’re going to have to ask scary Professor Seo for an extension.

You’re overwhelming Jaehyun with your obsessive monologue, he holds out his hands to calm you down with a soft chuckle, “Whoa, let’s slow down and start from the beginning. What kind of song do you need?”

You scroll back through the email Professor Seo had sent after explaining the assignment and tell him, “Something modern is the stipulation, released in the past few years, easy to dance to.” But like, besides the accumulated rap songs Mark has sent you these past few months, your Spotify is filled to the brim with 1800s classical music, none of which fit the description

“Like…. Lover by Taylor Swift,” Jaehyun offers out of nowhere.

_Why the heck does it feel like my heart might literally beat right out of my ribcage?_

“H-how,” you stutter, trying to control your reaction, “how did you know that?”

He holds up his phone in confusion, open to a specific page, and explains, “A cursory Google search tells me that Lover fits that description pretty well. Released in 2019, the right time signature for dancing—, why is your face funny.”

Is it? You can’t really feel anything right now. Your eyes dart over to the slab of mirror to your right and sure enough, there’s a rosy, pearlescent sheen across the expanse of your cheeks, irises quaking, smile trying not to creep up. Funny might not be the right word.

“That is my favorite song,” you whisper.

His lips part in surprise, but then close when he recalls with a knowing smile, “I remember you danced to it at junior prom. Because of that?“

He said he’d known who you were since freshman year gym class. Of course he’d remember this snapshot of time from junior year, when you’d worn that aqua chiffon and had been caught off guard by your crowning. You’d loved it long before that, though. You’d heard it for the first time on a late night bus ride home, when the driver blasted it over her speakers as you were the only one she was carting around then. You were alone then, not just on the bus, but in life, and something about the lyrics made you think, for once, that it wasn’t always going to be like that.

“No, I honestly wish they’d picked anything else back then,” you confess, because it almost seemed tainted afterwards, dancing to the melody with a person you didn’t care about or even know. “I just love it. I don’t know.”

“You should do it, then.”

“No……” you start to deny, but when Jaehyun raises a defiant eyebrow, you grumble and reach for your phone again, “Fine, maybe I can find sheet music for it, ugh why do you have the worst influence on me possible…”

An arpeggio of beautiful quarter notes emanates from the piano before you can do anything further, the musical interpretation of lyrics that you’ve had memorized ever since, _We could leave the Christmas lights up 'til January, this is our place, we make the rules._

Your gaze careens over to where Jaehyun’s bent over the piano, hair falling into his eyes as he plays for you, and when he catches your expression of confusion, he explains softly, “I can play music by ear. Don’t wait for me.”

Artistic exuberance takes over your body as you twirl out onto the studio floor, coming up the with the steps in your mind as Jaehyun plays. It might be nice to waltz back and forth simply for a few counts, arms held out like you have a partner there with you, to tombé to your knee and sweep your leg on the ground, set up a series of pique turns that will fulfill your technique requirement. But it’s hard to recall the assignment as he keeps playing, the melody falling effortlessly from the keys, and you’re breathless by the end of it, and not just because you’ve danced for three minutes straight.

Like you’ve done so many times, you sandwich yourself onto the bench next to him to watch the footage of your first improvisation. It’s pretty great for a first go around, but Jaehyun points out what you’d noticed, “You look weird dancing alone. Pretty, but weird.” He trails off for a moment, then offers up a shy suggestion, "Maybe I can help you."

You cackle out loud at that, sarcastically agreeing, “Yeah, okay.”

But the humor turns to ashes in your mouth when you really look at him and realize that Jaehyun is being totally serious about this, eyes bright, mouth fighting a dumb grin. Working with a dumb thought of your own, your finger moves to re-start the video, so you can have the song’s audio playing without needing him to sit at the piano. You get up from the bench and gesture him forward, he sheepishly follows you out into the middle of the studio, not expecting that you’d actually take him up on the offer.

“How do I do this?” he mutters, like the two of you haven’t danced before, even though you did at prom. He tries to hold your waist like he did then, but it’s not right for what you want, he won’t be able to move you without tangling up his arms.

“Feel this.” You place his hand right on the breadth of your back, then you lower it so his fingers rest a fraction of a centimeter above the curve of your figure. “And now this.”

Jaehyun’s cheeks pool with red, obviously stunned by the instructed brazenness of the way he’s holding you. You can’t blame him, because you’re having trouble corralling your breathing into something that doesn’t give away how affected you are by him right now. When he gently brings you around in a slow circle, the beginning of a slow waltz, it’s smoothly ideal.

_Can I go where you go? Can we always be this close, forever and ever?_

You begin to sway around the room, his right foot stepping forward when your left foot steps back, bodies moving in perfect unison. The extension of your arms allows enough space between the two of you for you not to feel completely throttled, but the way he’s looking at you is suffocating enough. He doesn’t know how to mimic the choreography, not quite, but he can lift his arm so you can duck underneath it in a cute twirl, bend his knees so you’re dipped backwards in an elegant fall.

“Did you think you were going to be any good at this, piano man,” you delicately rib him as you aimlessly meander across the floor, possessing more grace than you would’ve expected a non-dancer to have.

He doesn’t answer and you realize that the two of you have stopped moving, are just standing there, holding each other. He slowly lowers your extended arms but keeps his hand on yours, his other hand splayed out widely over your bare back, where your leotard has dipped too foolishly low to save you.

“Hey, y/n, I’m done in the st— oh.” Joy’s sprightly voice bounds into the studio through the open door, and you and Jaehyun spring apart at the intrusion, slamming back into the reality of it all. Her eyes widen in recognition at your companion, “Picture guy.”

Jaehyun points to himself dumbly, “Picture guy? Me?”

“She has a picture of you right by her bed,” Joy divulges without a care, topping it off with an evil little cackle when she sees your jaw drop at being exposed like this. _I’d never told him about that frame, for good reason!_

“Joy!” you hiss, causing her to laugh even harder.

He still has his hand on your back, he teasingly pinches your shoulder blade as he ribs, “You do, huh, prima donna? That’s real cute of you.”

_God, I’m so embarrassed._

Face in your hand so neither of them can see how red you are, you hold out a hand to to do requisite introductions, not that either of them deserve it, “Joy, this is Jaehyun. Jaehyun, this is Joy.”

“Nice to finally put a name to the thousand stories I know,” Joy jokes. She fixes you with a sly grin, then tilts her head back down the hallway, "Front desk told me to tell you that you're overtime."

With a groan, you step away from Jaehyun, thankful she'd actually managed to give you that brief moment of respite. It had all gotten so out of hand so fast, you weren't quite sure what would've happened if she hadn't showed up when she did. You can still feel his hand on your shoulder blade with burning precision. You take a mental break to go get your studio time extended, after finding that no one had reserved it after you. However, you nearly go into the wrong studio because the one you were in had unexpected music coming from it. You tiptoe over and peek in around the corner to see.

“You can get that leg up in time, I swear!” Jaehyun eggs Joy on over the familiar melody of Marzipan that he’s playing - at a slower tempo than you like, but at the exact speed you know that she prefers. “Try it again!”

The ending of the variation is a double pirouette, followed by a fan kick of your leg landing on your knee. All week you both had had trouble finishing on cue with the music, hence the Instagram picture that had started this whole series of events. But when Jaehyun plays it at the proper tempo, Joy has no problem pulling off the move with a professional’s grace, managing to whip out three turns, and still finishing on her knee — without falling! — by the time he plays the final note.

She collapses to the ground only out of pure happiness and crows, “Wow, I can’t believe that worked!”

You knock on the doorframe loudly, startling them both into looking back at you. You cross your arms in mock scolding, “What’s going on here?”

Joy shoots you a savage look from the ground and gripes, “You didn’t tell me that he was this good.”

You stick your tongue out at her. “I definitely did.”

It’s the most pleasant strangeness, to have all your people gathered together like this, a sense of camaraderie you’ve never had the privilege of experiencing before. Jaehyun plays late into the night so both of you can rehearse even though you don’t need to. Joy buys him an entire pizza in return and actually has the audacity to leave you both in your room with a saucy, _See you at the show, picture guy!_ like she’s certain he’ll come to watch you in the Nutcracker.

_(Which he is. He’s had the train ticket since August.)_

When he’s finishing an assignment at the desk you’d deferred to him, you burrow yourself into your comforter, content to not do any work yourself for the night after you send your choreography draft to Professor Seo. You hate that this has to end, he told you his late train to the city was at eleven, but two more hours is not enough. What kind of comment should be made about you that you’re already looking at the pictures of Jaehyun on your phone when he’s still in the room with you?

He glances over, distracted as he thinks. His eye goes first to the nefarious picture on your nightstand, then over to you, still lost in your phone. He sighs, “You really love it here, huh?”

“Yeah, you can tell?” you answer, not really paying attention to what he’s doing.

“Your eyes…. super sparkly right now.”

 _Oh, God. He’s never going to let me live it down if he sees what I’m looking at._ But while you quickly lock your phone so he can’t see, you do tell him the partial, really full, truth, “I think that’s cause you’re here. You’re the only person I care about.”

In a flash, Jaehyun is lying on the pillow beside you, both of your gazes now attached to the spinning ceiling fan that’s going despite the fall chill. The same kind of chill that cascades over your arms when he echoes, “You know it’s the same for me, swear on you.” He shifts after, propping his head up on his elbow and prodding you with his other hand, “Wait, but seriously though. I’ve tried to avoid it but I need to ask. Are you sure you’re going to be okay with the stuff with your mom?”

Him being here has been the distraction you’d needed to forget about your mother’s devastating interruption. You don’t want to return to the state of existence that requires you to think about it. That’s why he can’t leave.

“No, and I really can’t handle thinking about it. I’m too busy and too unwilling to take a moment for myself.” His eyes have gone all drippy-droopy behind his glasses, the exact way they like to when he’s sad or upset, and you shove his face away, groaning, “Don’t give me that look.”

“But like the holidays…. and what? I don’t want you to be here alone without your parents.”

“I have yours.”

“I’m not sure if that’s even the best alternative,” Jaehyun knocks his forehead into yours, trying to convey that you know what kind of issues his own family faces. But his mother loves him and his siblings, more than you’ve ever had, and he knows that, “The unspoken question is right there on your mouth, and he fills you in, “Jack and Johnny are going to their extended family’s for Christmas, so it’ll be just us. Seems to be going well but they’re taking it slow. Different for once.”

His smile is wistful, still tentative about the idea of his mother dating, but he sounds more at peace about it than you’d expected him to be.

“That’s good,” you whisper, reaching over to smooth his bangs out. Unable to resist, you hug him fully, his fresh soap scent enveloping you as you melt into his hold and lose all form of resistance to his request, “Fine, I’ll stay with you over break then.”

His fingers clutch at you tighter with your agreement, and he sighs into your hair, “The peanuts will love to see you. I know Mark’s favorite time of the week is when you send him the latest song you’ve discovered.”

That same affectation from before comes roaring back. _Why can’t I feel a drop normal around him, why does my emotional palette have to act up in this way?_

“Do you have to go back tonight?” you whine into his sweater, hoping that your arms around his frame will handcuff him here to your bed, that he can’t leave Princeton until you say it’s okay for him to do so.

He uses a tone that you can’t pinpoint in his response, “Why?”

“Jae,” you murmur, not wanting him to make you say it with your own mouth, that you want him to stay here because you like having him around, nothing more than that. 

His hand comes to gently grasp the back of your head, fingers tender as they pull your face away from him. His pretty brown eyes hone in right towards yours, like in them he can sense the musical trills of your heart by ear like he claimed. The corner of his lip turns up in a crooked, oh so cute smile, and he breathes, “That’s what you had in mind? You can’t say it out loud?”

“W-what?” you stutter as he rolls on top of you, your body pressed right up against his, deliciously entrapped under his form as he props himself up on his — _when did they get so muscular?_ — forearms.

“Different this time, huh? You practically demanded it the last time it happened.”

_Oh, damn it._

He’s not as talented with plucking out your hidden desires as he is playing music by ear, because he’s staring at you with heavy-lidded eyes now, pink lips parted as his chest starts to billow with arduous breath. You’ve seen this look on him once before. That’s what he thought you were implying? You thought that was a one-off, something you did in the heat of the moment, doused with the twinges of intoxication and the idea that that was maybe the only time.

But now here Jaehyun is, hovering over you, conducting his own symphony of a seduction call, “And I have not been able to get that image of you in my bed out of my head since. It’s been too long, prima donna. You are still so pretty, you’re the prettiest girl.”

“When did you get like this?” you murmur in awed disbelief as he so confidently pulls off his shirt, like he’s the centerfold spread in some luxury men’s magazine. And gosh, he shouldn’t be allowed to hide this kind of alabaster, chiseled absurdity under those vests. Criminal.

His head dips low by yours, first tracing a path by your ear so he can whisper, “Shhh, don’t think.”

And then, he takes his sweet time to return to his favorite spot to linger in - the smooth curve of your cheek - where he sighs in literal relief that he gets to once more lay a kiss upon your skin there. The first time he’d been hurried to the point of almost being crazed, lacking any semblance of control in his race to have all of you at once, but he’s clearly made up his mind that this is going to go differently. He doesn’t kiss your lips, of course, never there, but he wants to make up time for the rest of it, fingers threading through your ponytail, then loosening it so your hair is all over the place, careful to set the pearl pin on your nightstand.

As soon as he’s satisfied with how mussed and lovely you are, his fingertips scoot under the strap of your leotard, pushing it off your shoulder so his mouth can be there instead, the delicate slip of chest that’s exposed, the press of your hipbone under your skirt. And of course, when you’re racing to peel your leotard off, not possessing the capacity to be embarrassed about how eager you are, you can feel his breath ghost against the side of your knee, lips primed to kiss you there, even through your tights, leaving a lurid stain that cascades right into your flaming cheeks.

From the moment his lecherous mouth next presses against the column of your neck, right over the stained cut that hasn’t faded yet, you have no problem in doing what he’s said, head filled with nothing but him. You almost feel bad, that you make him miss his train, until you wake up the next morning like you did the first time - in your separate zones of the bed but with your hands still intertwined.

And instead, you wish you could wake up every day like this.

**tbc.**

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> fucking rip i originally wrote s**jin in as a villain-ish character in this story and i had to write her out. LMFAO. #my mind
> 
> hope u guys enjoyed the intro to the college world. now you'll start to see how the REAL PLOT DEVELOPS. muahahahhahahaha. thank u for reading! xo


	7. frappé: to strike

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Lose your mind, skip a class, have a drink, kiss a guy, none of it matters in the long term. Not even telling your parents to fuck off.”

Your case study blurs in your vision, Dancing Queen looping for the thousandth time as your background music, and a yawn brims in the back of your throat. This Saturday night is going to suck if you’re already this tired and your task list is still this long.

Joy helps none of that when she looks over from her work spot on your bed and asserts, “It’s spring semester and you have not gone to a single party this year. Please indulge me.”

“I’m…”

“Busy, I know,” she fills in the end of the sentence she knows is coming, punctuated with a very generous eye roll. “Like every other double major is. But this is the last week we have until rehearsals for the spring showcase start, and Donghae’s throwing a party with some Sigma Iotas and Phi Chis.”

You really don’t know how you’ve made it nearly a whole year without going to a college party. It certainly wasn’t on purpose, since you’d been to at least three at Columbia with Jaehyun and Doyoung, but you’re always so much busier here.

Case in point (literally), the case study that you use as your excuse, “I don’t know, Joy, I think I was just going to stay in and study with Jaehyun—,”

“Some of us don’t have boyfriends to talk to on the phone every night,” she retorts.

Maybe you should’ve agreed to go to the party so she would stop bringing this up. Ever since Jaehyun visited in the fall she’s been on this trip to get you to accept that you were actually dating and not just best friends. _And like, we’re not. We deny it at the same time every time we three way call so he can play piano for us from the Columbia practice rooms. He even denies it before I do. See? It’s not like I’m in denial, that’s just how it is. How we both like it_.

“He is not my boyfriend.”

“So come to the party and talk to a guy. Make out with one, even,” Joy says flippantly, because of all the things you’ve told her, you’ve never mentioned your one cardinal rule about the not-sinful yet-sinful act. “I’ll do it if you do it. Krystal posted this picture of her and Minho together and I really need to forget how hot he looked in it.”

She thinks the way to get over one boy is to get under another one. And you really don’t blame her, because when she shows you her older sister’s Instagram post — both of them dressed to the nines at some swanky dinner club in the city, Minho’s stunning form draped in a grey suit that hugs all of his broadness — you do have to admit that the man is smoking, smoking hot. She’s been working on getting rid of this crush, flirting and dating and getting absolutely nowhere, and you want to help her.

“Ugh, fine. Fine, I’ll go,” you accept, though, technically you do no agreeing to her stipulation that you kiss someone in return. _What she doesn’t know won’t hurt her._

Joy insists on wearing the silver version of the navy one-strap dress you have, bought together over spring break when it had come back into stock at Target.com. She borrows a pair of Louis Vuitton heels you’ve thrifted despite having her own, and you, despite your annoyance, do let her do your makeup. This night is all about her, whatever makes her happy and not think about Minho is what you’ll indulge.

Donghae lives in a swanky townhouse off of campus, big enough to fit your entire department and more. He’s really going for the _and more_ addendum, because this place is packed to the point where you’re finding it very uncomfortable to even attempt to breathe and not because of this tight dress. _I hate things like this, I’ve hated them for a long time. The only time I hadn’t was senior prom, and I suppose those three Columbia parties. All of which had the same thing in common._

“You should go for Winwin, I think,” Joy says out of nowhere. “He’s always been so beautiful.”

The tall man has only gotten more elegant and expensive in the months since you’ve known him, always dressed to the nines in the designer clothes his mom sends him from China, always with a charming smile at the ready. All the girls at the party are doing double takes when they walk by him leaning up against the wall, chest exposed with his unbuttoned shirt. But none of them manage to draw his attention.

“He’s beautiful,” you agree, but then nudge Joy’s chin over so she can see the dark-haired man he’s talking to, slightly past the line of a casual party conversation. “But I think also might be hitting on the guy he’s talking to.”

As if he’s heard you discussing him, Winwin bends his head over towards his companion's ear to whisper something, luring him in with the dark gaze that enchants everyone, indeed a touch past platonic in the interaction. You’d seen him making out with one of the junior girls after a Nutcracker show, and one of the sophomore boys at a kickback in February, but this isn’t that out of the norm considering you’re all artists, and he flirts with everyone.

“Ohhhhhh,” she breathes out in understanding. You and Joy lock eyes and pound fists while proclaiming simultaneously, “Nice. Big respect.”

The minute a third man joins Winwin and his… friend… you’re sparked with an idea.

You nudge Joy in the ribs, then nonchalantly say, “I think that you should finally give Ten the time of day. He’s switched places to be your partner in intro to mime three times this month.” He’s cut Shownu in line each of those times so he’d get paired up with Joy, a suspicious act on its own, but downright telling when you saw his ruddy blush afterwards.Joy’s mouth twists up with some indecipherable emotion, what she’s intended for you not to catch, and you ask after it, “Wait, why’d you make that face. Is there… is there something that you haven’t told me?”

“It’s not a something we need to talk about,” she grumbles, turning away from you so she can refill her beer cup.

“Joy.”

“I’ve known he’s liked me for some time.”

You nearly drop your wine cooler onto the counter. It’s been months and she’s not once brought up the fact that she and her brother’s best friend are tangentially - not even tangentially, directly involved in some kind of romantic entanglement? And she’s been bothering you about Jaehyun for that entire time?

You glance around to make sure no one’s listening, then hiss, “Ten likes you and you’ve never told me this, why?”

“Because I already said this was not something we talk about,” she rasps back, displeased she has to bring up what apparently is a sore subject. “Taeyong walked in on us almost kissing after prom and it almost ruined their friendship, now that’s not a thing anymore.”

Her heel is tapping anxiously against the floor, an incessant display of her nerves, and you can tell from that there’s way more to the story than she’s telling you. But that sounds, simply, so dumb to you. Why would that have ruined a friendship? _Does this have something to do with Ten’s errant financial status? I’d hate to find out if it was due to that. What would they be thinking of me, then?_

“Who cares what your brother thinks,” you say, knowing there’s nothing that he can do one way or another to stop you from making this happen. “Even I have to say he’s looking pretty darn good right now.”

Pretty darn good is putting it lightly, Ten always has the most mysterious aura out of the trio - despite being the most approachable. With his dark suit contrasting his beautiful blonde hair, he comes off as the pinnacle of statuesque beauty right now.

Joy looks, she has to after your comment, and her exhale catches, “I, I guess.” And her cheeks go as dark as the lipstick she has on.

“You’re blushing. You’re so blushing, you’re still into him and you know it. We had a deal, remember?” Who cares if you’re not going to fulfill your end of it, you know she’s deeply loyal to all the promises you make each other.

“I can’t just go talk to him!”

“Ugh, you make me do everything. Hey, Ten!”

You’ve called loudly enough that he glances up and sees you two together, and after he hesitantly waves - hue of his skin also going pink - you’ve got this teed up for a hole in one. Joy hisses _don’t_ when you confidently catwalk over to the boy, but it’s too late, you’re already deep into wingwoman mode.

You throw an arm around him like he’s your closest buddy, voice going friendlier than friendly as you compliment him, “Really nice to see you at this party, you looked really great in modern this week, I think you’re probably the best of us at modern, don’t you think? Joy? Joy!” You very blatantly call for the other girl when Ten’s in your hold, giving neither of them an opportunity to escape this set up.

She’s pretending to be occupied with the champagne Donghae’s laid out, but can’t ignore the very obvious sound of her name, “Right, yes, what? Oh, hi, Ten.”

“Y-you’re talking to me again?” he stutters, clearly recalling a time where they used to be a maybe something.

“Yeah,” Joy answers, trying to come off nonchalant but not doing it very well with how she begins to babble, “we have mime together… and four ballet classes? And you’re my brother’s best friend?”

“But that—,”

They’ve already delved into this sort of moony will-they-won’t-they, too shy to say anything straightforward type of mood. You jerk a thumb over to your best friend and you deadpan to Ten, “Joy still likes you, even after whatever happened. It’s obvious you like her too. Good luck.” When they both splutter at being exposed, you know you’ve sunk the shot, so you wave a hand and meander away, “I’m getting a drink.”

You even have the decency to leave the room, so they can converse knowing they’re out of sight from you!

You find another bar set up in the entryway of the place, and snag the second to last glass of champagne available as you peek back in the room to now see the pair of them conversing alone — and closely. You’re so good at this. Maybe you can tell Jaehyun you’ll help him set Doyoung up with someone so his roommate can stop whining about being single.

“Hey, I’ve never seen you at one of these things.”

You look over, mid snatch of the final glass of champagne to see (surprise!) another hot man you’ve never seen before - with neck-length gelled back hair and a smirk that the guys who know they’re hot tend to wear around here.

“That’s because I never go to these things…?” you respond, searching for his name at the end of it.

“I’m I.M.”

At the half alliterative onomatopoeia, your nose crinkles with amusement, and you hold out a hand and introduce yourself, “Funny. Y/n. I’m not biiiig on the whole social scene thing. But first time for everything I guess.”

“Are you in Phi Chi then?”

“No, I’m on the dance guest list, I guess.”

I.M.’s eyes widen and darken at the same time, as he takes the time to lounge against the banister of the wall and let his deep voice soak with coquetry, “Ah, you’re one of D’s ballerina friends then? Super hot. Can I get you a drink?”

“Um, well…” You glance down at your hands, both currently occupied with the glasses of alcohol that you’ve stolen, that you don’t really want to chug if you don’t have to. You shrug, “I guess I’ll pass. Can’t really hold much more.”

“I have some unopened champagne in my apartment, if you want it,” he offers, taking a step closer to you from where he’s standing, within range to let whatever piquant cologne he has on billow into the air.

 _The student apartments are all the way on the other side of campus, it’d be super inconvenient for I.M. to do that when I can probably just find Donghae and ask if he has any more._ You smile in gratitude but turn him down, “Oh, I wouldn’t ask you to go get it for me, it’s fine.”

To emphasize your point, you lift one of the glasses to your mouth, preparing to take a gulp out of it and show your satisfaction. That means you nearly suffocate on the bubbly when I.M. levels you with the most intense kind of provocative look a man’s sent your way and murmurs,

“I meant like… we could go share it together.”

This has evolved into something you weren’t expecting in any capacity. I.M.’s right in front of you and so attractive— really the whole package of a perfect Princeton man, good looking and probably studying something like political science if his put together appearance says anything, and oh, he’s actually saying something, “Babe, I’m gonna kiss you. You look so hot right now.”

 _Jungkook in his underwear, fumbling for the closet door. The picture of Jaehyun on the night stand_. _Mother looking me in the eyes, d_ _on’t even think about kissing them, because you_ ** _will_** _fall in love with them, no matter what. I really don’t want to fall in love with Donghae’s perfect Princeton man friend. I don’t. I swear on Jaehyun that I don’t._

You swerve out of the way the moment his eyelids cascade closed, mouth primed to meet yours in a delicious gesture of affection that wouldn’t be out of place at this party. All that harried worry makes its way into your gasped denial, “No, no. Please don’t do that.”

Out of nowhere, Taeyong bursts onto the scene and has I.M. pressed up against the wall in a show of machismo, all before you can say no one more time. You stumble back in surprise at the display of aggression, because nothing warranting that response had even occurred. It might’ve just looked like it, you don’t know, you think you might’ve blacked out a little there, and not just because of the two sips of champagne you had.

But Taeyong is growling in the older man’s face anyways, “Back off, asshole.”

“I thought she was into it!” I.M. yelps, not even trying to fight back against the stronghold.

When he strains to look behind Taeyong, to get you to corroborate whatever you were feeling, you bolt, suddenly terrified by the looming consequences of what just happened. You catch Taeyong’s parting threat, _Even if she was, you want to fuck with me? You know exactly who I am!_ right before the heavy double doors of the townhouse close behind you. You’re out on the front step, crisp with the early morning spring dew that’s fallen on the concrete. You’re as wobbly as a baby bird in your high heels, unable to stand still yet unable to pace, to walk, to make yourself move in the way that you want to - back home.

“Want me to get my sister?”

You flinch at the sudden intrusion of noise, and when you peer back at the door, Taeyong’s head is sticking out of it, features dripping with concern as he watches you there.

“No, no.” You can’t even get the tremble out of your voice in time for him not to hear, “I’ll just go home. Tell her I felt sick, or something.”

Taeyong hesitates, like he wants to go back inside, but ultimately decides to join you out on the front step. Shoving his hands in his pockets and not looking at you, instead out to the street, he asks, “What happened in there? Did he do something inappropriate?”

“No, no,” you repeat again, because you don’t want I.M. to suffer the consequences of your twisted mind. He did nothing wrong except, “He… he… he tried to kiss me.”

“Just kiss you?” he clarifies.

“Yeah. I, I don’t like that,” you mumble, hands shaking as you try to pinch feeling into your skin, limbs deadened out from the numb shock of narrowly avoiding a normal party encounter. “I don’t like that.”

“Bad experience?”

“Kind of.”

You’ve only told Jaehyun this, of course you would never tell Taeyong the truth. But _kind of_ at least conveys the baseline level of nausea you operate at when it comes to the romantic notion. Logically, you know that at its simplest, kissing does not equal an immediate guarantee of love. But it’s hard to disentangle that from your mother’s story, knowing she kissed your father in that bar, knowing she fell in love with him enough to marry him and have his child, and she still turned out this way all the same.

“I’m going to give you my advice, though I know you probably don’t give a shit about it,” Taeyong states, with tact and care and just a little edge to tell you this isn’t supposed to change the status quo of your relationship. “Lose your mind, skip a class, have a drink, kiss a guy, none of it matters in the long term. Not even telling your parents to fuck off.”

 _Interesting, that a man so focused on the long-term, with his career, and his family, would impart such advice on me_.

“H-how?” you stutter, at his blatant knowledge of your personal life, before it dawns on you. “Joy tells you everything.”

_More than that, he’d been the one to call her to my aid in the first place._

His eyebrows raise, like he knows a thing or two about what you’re going through. You think of what Ten and Winwin have said about his mom, which is a story you might have to ask him about if you ever bridge the gap of friendship. His next suggestion is actually wise, “Erase the memory of what happened with something better.”

He’s definitely not talking just about kissing.

Taeyong clears his throat, elbow brushing slight against yours, and he sorts himself out into just your classmate and not whatever he was just then, “I would usually offer to walk you home, but Lisa’s waiting for me at mine. My driver, Kibum, can take you to your dorm.”

And with the grace of a dancer, he disappears back into the party, no parting smile, nothing.

You don’t have to wait long for the silver Jaguar to roll up to the curb, and inside is a man in his thirties with the most mischievous yet friendly smile, who doesn’t need any of your directions back to the dorm. He rolls the privacy screen up, a feature you didn’t even know fancy cars like this had, and once the barrier is sealed, your fingers are working out of instinct to slip your phone out of your purse.

It’s the wee hours of the morning, Jaehyun will be asleep in his room for sure, so you’ll leave a sob story message and deny that you were sober in the morning. Or at least that’s the plan, until the call actually connects and you’re treated to your best friend’s sleepy, sleepy voice, “Mmmmmm, prima donna? Why’re you calling so late?”

You’re so stunned that you weren’t sent straight to voicemail you can only manage, “What?”

“You prank calling me while drunk?” he teases, clearly fighting his urge to let the sleep overwhelm him, while also keeping quiet enough not to wake up Doyoung.

“No, it’s four am! You weren’t supposed to answer!”

At the mention of the time, he immediately senses that something is wrong. His pitch wakes all the way up, “Wait, did something happen? Are you okay?”

Taeyong had worked hard to erase that tremble out of your voice, you’ll give him credit for that. But now that you’re here alone, and Jaehyun is separated from you by the distance between your phones, you can’t help the crack that slips, “I—,”

“You’re scaring me,” he whispers.

And you lose it, you really lose it, you have a mini-breakdown of all the emotion you’d tamped down after I.M.’s actions, lurching out of you like it’s actual vomit,

“God, I went to a party with Joy, I don’t even know why I agreed, some guy tried to kiss me and I freaked out, I just can’t believe I still have this problem, what’s wrong with me, I don’t know why I’m so crazy like this, it seriously bothers me, I don’t know what to do.”

You hear the sound of him sitting up in bed, and then Jaehyun’s soothing tone reverberates through the speaker, “Hey, hey. Take a second.”After you do, you take several more seconds to calm your hyperventilation by breathing in through your nose, then he gently resumes, “Walk me through it. Some guy…?”

“He was cute I guess, but I genuinely didn’t know he was flirting with me until he tried to kiss me and I didn’t know what to do,” you detail the interaction in the most compartmentalized, dispassionate way you can, because you’ll otherwise be tossed back into that whirlpool of panic. _How had I been that naive to think being approached by a guy at a college party meant anything else? I was even content to just talk with I.M. while Joy and Ten reconnected in the other room. I didn't know._

“Beyond your… thing… did you actually want to kiss him?” Jaehyun asks, careful.

“I don’t know,” you admit. “I literally went blank.” _I think the answer is probably no. It’s not no with every guy, but definitely with I.M., as handsome as he was._

“Don’t feel bad. I want to say the guy sounded like an ass but seems like he was just kind of into you,” Jaehyun remarks, which you know is an objective fact despite your disproportionate reaction. “But even if he was the nicest guy in the world, you shouldn’t feel bad for rejecting him.”

_I also know that it’s okay for me to say no, but with all my other commitment and relationship issues, tonight really leaves a sour taste in my mouth. Is it just going to be like this, forever? Making a scene and being avoidant until I find the one person I want to do so for? Sounds horrific._

“I know, I guess. It feels like there’s something wrong with me, though,” you confess, more than a little scared of the prospect of the future.

“There’s nothing wrong with you,” he murmurs, the wisps of alluring dreaminess returning to his soft reassurance, as the clutches of dreamworld come to snatch him from you. “Kiss someone only if you really want to. That stuff matters.”

—

Whacking your leg behind you in an arabesque, then twisting your crossed arms so you can dive into a split in Taeyong's hold, before he exerts his strength and lifts you above his head, twisting in a half circle to reposition you both. He steps forward in an abstract lunge and you extend your leg to the side, hitting your ear as you bring it to the front, inching forward en pointe as the ragged electronic music pulses through the speakers, him flipping you from passé front to back, and with one last closing pose of geometric symmetry, it’s finished.

The ending beat hasn’t melted away yet before Taeyong points out, “You know, that was probably the best we’ve ever done it.”

Your contemporary duet of In the Middle, Somewhat Elevated, has come together nicely over the past weeks of rehearsals, brainstorming sessions, and office hours with Hyo to bring the pas to fruition for her sister’s assignment. He’s right, the practice run had gone great, though you noticed one little nitpick you bring up to him, “I still think the press lift could go a bit more smoothly if you weren’t so careful with grabbing me, but otherwise I can’t complain that much.”

“Like this?”

Without hesitation, Taeyong reaches for you, with a more firm grip across your waist so that you feel more weightless in his arms as he brings you around. That’s the sensation it’s supposed to feel like, instead of the more effortful attempt earlier. It’s definitely not gone unnoticed over this time, either, that he’s become more open to accepting your corrections, and you, him. Kind of like you’re sort of friends.

“Yeah, perfect, thanks,” you compliment him in positive reinforcement. “I’m kind of proud of how this has turned out, I can’t believe it’s tomorrow.” You’ll present your duet to Professor Seo at the workshop and never have to think about this stressful contemporary piece. It's a classic piece that every major company knows, but you both are just classical ballet nerds to the core that it's hard to get used to anything else. You notice that he's getting cheeky with his expression, his eyebrow is about to inch up, and you tack on a sour, sarcastic addendum, "I'm still better than you, don't forget it."

Sort of friends definitely don’t have this strange rapport that you’ve built up as a result of the profession you’re in, one that requires you to be half clothed and touching each other all the time. It feels natural for Taeyong to look over from where he’s fixing his bandanna with a lecherous grin, even more so for him to drawl, “Great, I was beginning to get concerned you were desperately in love with me with that compliment.”

You jab back with a laugh, “Focus on your arm candy not looking so disappointed whenever she’s in town, okay?” A sign of the changing times, that you can bother him about his situationship with Lisa instead of him blocking off all attempts to discuss her. You don’t really know the backstory there, but he at least allows you to joke about it now.

“Always a delight,” he grumbles good-naturedly, before queuing up the music again. “One more time? Joy said she had rehearsal tonight, don’t want to keep you.”

“Yeah, but Winwin and I have a private for Bluebird and Princess Florine in the morning, so I’m off. We can run this into the ground,” you offer, knowing both of you exist on the plane that demands perfection. You do appreciate that he tried to give you an out not knowing your schedule, though.

“Principal role as a freshman will never fail to amuse me.”

“You’re doing the full La Bayadere pas, which no underclassman is doing.”

The banter over your overachieving status despite your age is broken up by your phone, going off with whatever Tchaikovsky symphony Jaehyun had set it to last time. You squint to see the screen and it comes up with a string of digits you don’t recognize, so you groan and reach over to snatch it up, explaining, “Sorry, I should take this. It’s an unknown number, could be my semester tuition payment. Hello?”

The tiny, far away voice is one you know, but behind a number that isn’t his, “Hi?”

“Snarky?”

“Can you come pick me up?” Mark whispers, barely audible over the noise behind him.

“I’m not back in Newark yet,” you remind him, that as much as you want to help him surprise his friends at school you’re not home to do so. “Jae’s semester ends earlier than mine.”

_Ding. Welcome to Princeton Station. Please do not leave baggage unattended._

You nearly crush your phone in your hand with your horror, pressing the phone so tight against your skin you’re going to have a bruise there tomorrow. You hear it again, _Ding. Welcome to Princeton Station,_ and then you’re gasping, “Mark Lee. Are you… are you in Princeton? Are you here right now?”

“Y/n……” he sniffles, and that’s all you need.

You have your bag and your water bottle and your keys all at once, undoing your shoes with one hand and not even bothering to put on pants as you heave, “Oh my gosh, I’m coming, I’m coming. Do not move.” You glance around in a craze, trying to figure out if you’ve left anything behind and Taeyong is staring at you in confusion. You shoot him an apologetic smile and explain, “Family emergency, I’m sorry.”

“Go, do what you need,” he waves you away, before he does something so kind you’re not even sure it’s really from him. He offers, “You need Kibum?”

That’s how you end up with Taeho Lee’s son’s driver bringing you the bus station, even though it would’ve taken you less than ten minutes to walk the distance there. You must look like a total freak, in your leotard and tights and Nikes, not even a shirt or anything to cover you, bursting through the front doors in a panic, scanning the seats of people for a head of black hair that you know. _Why are there so many people here, there’s still two weeks in the semester, people should not be traveling, there needs to be a clear path for me to find him…. Orange beanie, even in the spring, spotted right by the pay phones. Bingo._

“Mark! Mark!” you yell, drawing the attention of everyone around you. When he turns, and his face crumples in relief to see you there, you go running his way, “Mark, oh my god!”

His tiny head - it’s really not tiny but you can’t help but still see him as a kid - snuggles into your shoulder when you hug. He mumbles into you, “I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m sorry.”

“Don’t be,” you hush him, wrapping your arms around his slight frame to stop his trembling. “I’m glad you’re safe. Come on, let’s get you out of here.”

You walk out of the bus stop after you’ve taken his backpack from him, keeping him carefully within your hold as head back to the running Jaguar. Kibum is professional to a fault, not commenting at all on the appearance of a teen he’s expected to shuttle around with you — neither of which are his actual client.

Mark whistles when the door is opened for you right in front of your dorm, and he watches the fancy vehicle speed away, fully impressed, “You have a driver?”

“I have a friend,” you amend. _Based on that offer alone, Taeyong is my friend._

You fuss over Mark like a proper big sister would, insisting he drink a full glass of water after he’s settled on your bed, giving him a granola bar and an extra pillow so that he’s comfortable. Most of all, you let him sit in silence when you sense that he’s not fully ready to discuss his spontaneous visit to you at school. After you’ve changed into your sweatpants in the hallway bathroom, you perch at the end of the bedspread, and eye him carefully before asking, “Does anyone know you’re here…?”

He shakes his head in denial, “No. I skipped school and am supposed to be at Haechan’s tonight. Not like Momma would even know or care.” That noticeable bite of disdain in his concluding sentence starts to clue you into the reasons behind this trip.

“You have to at least let me text your brother,” you suggest, because the image of your best friend’s face in your bedside photo is already pricking you with the fork of guilt.

“He won’t care either,” Mark mutters.

“Jaehyun will absolutely freak out when you don’t come home from school.”

“Please, don’t.”

You’re worried now. This isn’t like the ebullient boy that calls you once a week to discuss Lil Baby’s newest mixtape or pop star Kai's dance practice videos because you’re the only one who will listen to him outside of his rap club friends.

You scoot forward to grab his hand and entreat, “Okay, please tell me what this is all about.”

“Momma’s getting married again,” Mark blurts, and you involuntarily squeeze the crap out of his fingers at that. He chuckles wryly at your reaction, sounding older than fifteen, and he reiterates, “Yup, broke the news to us last night.”

You’re beyond baffled at this seemingly come out of nowhere, but Jaehyun hadn’t called you yesterday and it kind of makes sense. Not sense sense, but kind of sense. Just what? All you can think of in response is, “I thought we liked Jack,” because Jaehyun’s never had a bad thing to say about his mom’s boyfriend, not that you know for yourself what he’s like.

Which Mark reminds you of, with more vitriol than expected, “You haven’t even met him. And I doubt Jae has told you about all the other times.”

 _What other times? Does he mean with the twins’ father? I know that story._ “He’s given me enough of an idea.”

Mark scoffs, aged beyond belief with the stressed way he reveals, “Really? So, he’s told you about how she dates a different guy every quarter of school, then introduces them to us, to the _peanuts,_ that they’re going to be our new dad.”

Whoa, what?

“Which is literally the first thing Google tells you not to do when raising kids. I had to look that up when I was in the _hospital_ because she dated three different guys while I was getting treatment. Or did my brother tell you that the twins literally think that their dad is going to come back any day now? Because they saw him when he was around for Jisung and assume it’s going to happen again? Or that I won’t ever know who my father is because he gave up custody of me when I was born and had the court record sealed?”

You’re seriously disturbed by the full details of the tale that Mark’s spun for you. Jaehyun always implied there was more to his mother’s backstory than he felt comfortable telling, and it seems to be for good reason. This is beyond irresponsible, teetering into appalling. Kids lives are never supposed to be played with like that.

“Oh my gosh,” you whisper your admittance of ignorance. “I had no idea.”

“Yeah, and I doubt Jae told you that Momma pines after his dad the most. The picture of the three of them at his first birthday is the only one she keeps in her room.” _That somehow makes it even worse, makes this whole thing so freaking terrible._ “And because he knows and feels guilty about both that and my cancer, Jae acts like he’s my dad, which I fucking _hate_.”

You’re pricked with the desire to put your picture frame away, feeling too much of an eerie parallel between the two situations.

You try to reason with Mark about Jaehyun first, “You’re his baby brother—,”

“I’m a sophomore in high school,” he bites back, “I’m not a baby anymore.”

“Okay, then I shouldn’t be giving advice. I’m not in your family.”

Mark pauses. Because when faced with this crippling announcement, he’d chosen to run right to you instead of anyone else. That makes you family. He mutters in defeat, “You’re his girlfriend, I guess you count.”

“Not his girlfriend,” you correct.

He rolls his eyes, classic petulant teen, and sneers, “Right. You both have made that very clear to me.” He softens right after, childlike as he extends a peace offering, “But say what you want to say.”

You still don’t think you have any right to comment on his family matters, you’re too uneducated to give any sort of good advice that will help him sort out his feelings. But you know Jaehyun better than anyone, maybe even himself, and you have to remind Mark of the obvious truth, “You might want him to see you as his brother, but he’ll always think of you as a baby first. Always. He just wants you to be happy. I think your mom does, too.”

“You’re going to defend her?” he groans, regretting the choice to let you speak. “Nice.”

You have no loyalty to Ms. Jung, no matter how kindly she’s treated you. He has to know that, “No, that’s not what I’m doing at all. You need to listen to me.” You take a deep breath, and plunge deep into the well of your personal pain to make your point, “I have an awful mother. An awful, awful, _awful_ mother. I can look back on my nineteen years of life and can’t pick out a single moment where I felt some kind of love from her. Some action she took to go out of her way to care for me.”

_Not once, not from when I was a baby, a toddler, a child, a preteen, a teen, anything. Not a wisp of remembrance where I could breathe it in and experience a mother’s true love for her child._

“What?” Mark coughs, suddenly contrite as he mumbles, “I didn’t know that.” Which means Jaehyun never told. How nice of him.

You want to say something sarcastic like _Surprise!_ _You get to find out how messed up I actually am_. But you have to remind yourself he’s come to you for comfort, for some morsel of assurance despite the front he’s putting up. You have to go the tender route.

Scooting up on the pillow so you can put a caring arm around him, you concede first to his point, “Your mom must be a bit lost. There seems to be a lot of issues she needs to work out that we can’t help her with. Maybe she shouldn’t have had more children.” Which is a paradoxical statement to make since that would erase his existence, but from the look on his face, he’s thought the same. “However, I can kind of see - from an outsider’s perspective - what she’s doing. She wants you guys to have a father figure, to have stability and comfort, and to be loved. I think she’s trying with her efforts, however misplaced they may be.”

It’s evident from the way Ms. Jung’s treated you - always trying to slip you extra money, getting you a graduation gift though you didn’t ask, praying for you even though you weren’t her own. If you’ve gotten a fraction of her care, she obviously heaps it on her boys in loads. She must’ve felt lonely, without Jaehyun’s father around, and never wanted them to feel the same.

“Your feelings are totally valid about your mother, all the same. I’m not saying you have to accept any of it, welcome it, or even view it positively. I can totally understand how it’s such a tumultuous emotional feeling, especially at your age. You can’t argue with me about that, being only a sophomore is young.”

This somehow brings you back to the first deep conversation you’d ever had with his brother, about the reasons why you had lost sight of your faith, and here is more proof. No almost fifteen year old should have to ponder this kind of existentialism along with worrying about their health. It’s unfair.

He sounds his young age when he whispers, “What do you think I should do then?”

“Talk to Jae, tell him how you’re feeling,” is the only answer that makes sense to you. His feelings might be right about his mother, but you know he’s wrong about his eldest brother. “He once told me you were quote moody, unhelpful, and obsessed with being popular.” Mark makes a gross face, primed to argue, and you hold up a warning finger, “If you tell him I told you this, by the way, I will kill you. But he has no idea what’s going on with you, that it’s not really him you’re mad at.”

 _I’ll never forget that conversation, and how much it hurt me, when I didn’t really even know either of you_.

“I’m not obsessed with being popular,” Mark quietly admits, eyes focused on his hands fidgeting against his belt loops. “I just wanted… to be known as someone other than the cancer donation kid.”

Your heart breaks a little. That stupid fundraiser.

“I think you should tell him that,” you suggest delicately, before reaching out to adjust his bangs under his beanie. “High school doesn’t matter, at all. Your brother was the best person I knew and nobody else knew him.” _And he still is, you know?_

“Are you sure you aren’t dating,” Mark half-sniffles, half laughs, causing you to do the same as you rest his head on your shoulder.

“I’m sure,” you affirm, before wanting to make sure the other subject is done and dusted, “did what I say make sense? Any of it?

You feel Mark’s shrug, this conversation too deep and too emotional to come to a neat conclusion just like this, “But what, I let them get married, even if I kind of like the dude? And Johnny’s kind of cool?”

Here’s where you’re out of your depth. You know, from experience, that there’s little to nothing a child could ever do to change the mind of an adult. Mark could cry to Ms. Jung all he wanted, but at the end of the day, her heart will be set in the way that it intends.

“Sometimes you have to pick your battles and know when you have to protect yourselves. All of you. You know what I’m saying?” you maneuver through the subject with precise care and implication, so that he will understand it may be futile to resist.

He also hones in on the other part of it, “The peanuts.”

Right. He and Jaehyun are old enough to know all of the psychological turmoil that this sort of thing brings about, but their younger siblings are still naive, still innocent. This is more for them than anything.

Though it might seem a lifetime away, Mark has a glorious future awaiting him, one his brother was able to escape to. You’ll paint that picture for him so he can see it clearly, “You’re going to be out of the house soon, you’ll be able to go wherever you want and do whatever you want because you’re healthy and you’re amazing.” You hold him extra tight, your funny little friend you’re so fond of, and emphasize kindly, “But Jae has done a lot of the work to get you there. I think it would be good for the kiddos if you were to do that for them, too.”

Jaehyun didn’t act like Mark’s father because he wanted to, to him it felt like having no other option. And if you were Mark, you’d pick having a permanent brother pretending to be a dad than a temporary dad that could dissolve in an instant.

He hums under his breath, weighing your words, then agrees, “Okay.”

"If things stay hard at home though, why don't you do something like run for class president?" you suggest, knowing that rap club might not be enough to take up his time. "You'll have to stay at school a lot. Maybe it'll keep you out of the house."

"I'm never going to win class president," Mark deadpans, finding that possibility so ludicrous. "No one knows who I am."

"But they know me, and I give you permission to extort the hell out of me. Once they find out you're my best friend's little brother, they will vote for you on that alone."

You know you're right, you've only been gone a year but you'd bet everything you had Edison's populace was still that fickle when it came to popularity and social status. But even with all this reassurance, Mark still looks like he's adrift in the swirling seas of life, and it is on you to keep him from drowning. 

“Let’s make a deal, how about it?” You turn to face him, holding out your pinky so he can link it with his, no matter how he recoils at the childish gesture. Then, you lay out your master plan, “You stay here with me tonight. I’ll bring you to the dining hall, you can experience dorm life, and in the morning, my friend’s driver can take you home so you don’t have to bum money from Haechan for bus fare.” He groans, knowing you’ve called him out for exactly what he did. Pinkies still linked, you cover his hand with your other one, and beseech him, “Talk to Jaehyun when you get home, okay? Tell him everything you told me today, do that going forward. Run for class president, have fun, be who you are, and anything you feel like you can’t tell him, you tell me.”

_I’ll be there for Mark like no one was for me, until Jaehyun._

“Deal,” he agrees again, before sighing with full appreciativeness, “thank you.”

“I’m on your side, Mark. Never forget that.”

When he’s preoccupied eating the chips you get him from the dorm vending machine, you go to your phone to do what you know you have to. Your eye is snatched by a cordial message you hadn’t expected, and you make a mental note to reply to it later, preoccupied otherwise.

> [3:30 pm] **Taeyong Lee:** hope you’re good
> 
>   
> [4:55 pm] **you:** please don’t explode  
> [4:55 pm] **you:** M is here w me at school  
> [4:55 pm] **you:** I’ve got it sorted do not worry. swear on u  
> [4:55 pm] **piano man:** thank god. I was worried as fuck  
> [4:55 pm] **piano man:** I trust you, no matter what. Swear on you.

—

Jaehyun eyes the bottles of wine neatly displayed at the end of the aisle and mutters, “Should I test out my fake? Maybe get us both arrested so we can avoid this?”

“None of the conversations went well?” you ask, thinking the same thought about the alcohol regardless. He’d come to see you in the spring showcase, and you’d stayed up all night talking about what happened with Mark - amongst doing other things - and he’d left with the idea he was going to try to have a discussion with his mother about her impending nuptials.

“You are here for a wedding and not at summer ballet,” he reminds you.

You glance down at the fluttery skirt of a lilac dress that Joy lent you, in his favorite color so you - direct quote from her, 'could perfectly match the super hot button-down he’d picked.' That’s the answer to your own question, stupid of you to ask in the first place. Squeezing his arm in comfort, so that he doesn’t get too riled up in the middle of the supermarket, you steer him away from the alcohol display with a warning, “Let’s not risk a stain on our records on a day like today. How’s everyone taking it?”

“Peanuts are excited, because Momma told them it was going to be a party,” he says with a raise of his eyebrows, a _can you believe that_ , kind of sarcastic look. “Twins are old enough to get it, but not completely. Mark, he’s a lost cause still, but you worked some voodoo magic, p.d. He’s not as angry anymore.”

_Great. That is so, so great. I’d have that tough conversation a thousand times if it meant your relationship healed._

“Thank God for that, right?” you quip, sarcastically raising your hand to the sky like you’re praising.

Jaehyun bows his head over his folded hands in mock prayer, “All praise to our Lord above.” He grabs your hand and starts to lead you towards the back, “Let’s get the flowers and go before I’m tempted by that display any more.”

“Bunny?”

You seize in place at the familiar nickname, intuitive action to both sever yourself from Jaehyun’s hold and cling onto him for dear life. You decide on the former, gathering yourself up into a pillar of solitary propriety you haven’t had to transform into in a long time, and turn to see who’s stumbled upon you.

“Dad, hi.”

You have no idea why he’s shopping here and not at his job — you hope it’s not because he got fired again — but you do manage a smile to see him there, because you’ve really missed him. You even want to hug him.

“Who are you talking—,” a feminine voice slings into the space, before going deadly cold. “y/n.”

It’s an interesting sight to take in, your parents here together — your father not bothering to change out of his house sweat suit, your mother in her finest Gucci, which means she’s seeing Rachael after this. You glance behind you and Jaehyun has thankfully disappeared, meaning the rumor mill won’t be ground up again. You’ve kept her from knowing who he is, and you want it to remain that way forever.

“Mother,” you acknowledge her with a tacit nod, then prepare to turn on your heel and exit with grace.

“Are you not coming home for the summer?” your father blurts.

You clam up, assuming that if you say anything, your mother will spread it to her friends. It’ll be predictable, something about how her disgraceful daughter continues to avoid returning to Newark. Or maybe even worse, she'll keep up the secret that everything is beyond peachy in your family home. But your father looks at you with such sad eyes your heart feels compelled to answer in the truth, “No. The dance program has a summer intensive that I am taking part in.” He flinches, like it’s a personal blow against him and not a decision you made for your own well being. You think to tack on something that will make him happy, “I was on honor roll both semesters, and my scholarship was renewed for next year. Goodbye.”

You get one ribbon of a proud glimpse in his eyes before it dissipates into the same blank nothingness, and you leave before you allow yourself to take in your mother’s sour reaction. You walk back down the aisle and as soon as you escape it, you run right into Jaehyun, waiting for you, with already purchased boutonniere and corsage in hand.

He’s seen all of it, as evidenced by his first question as soon as you exit the store, “That bad still?”

As you walk the ten minute sidewalk path to where Punchbowl is, past the extended stay motel and the turnoff for his house, you fight to cool off your haggard breath. _I’ve lived in ignorant bliss since Joy gave me the kick in the pants to kick Mother out of my life, and confronting it head on like this hurts more than I’d thought._

“That bad,” you confirm, but let your paradoxical thoughts flow out, “but not really bad, because it’s been good for me. You know how it is.”

He nods. “I know. Felt like it was getting there with Momma for a minute.”

“I do miss Dad, though. Kind of. If you can even really miss a person who’s not there in the first place,” you lament, because seeing him emotional made you emotional back there. Yet, you can’t also say that you’ve thought about him much over the past year, that’s how distant he was.

No time to dwell in depression, because as soon as you make your way inside the restaurant, there’s a cacophony of screams.

“Mary Jane, Mary Jane!” Jaemin is the first one to you, but Renjun is not that far behind, both of them seemed to have matched their energy levels since Christmas. They have their Spiderman shirts on under their suit jackets, the one concession that Jaehyun had to give up to get them dressed properly for the nuptials.

“Are those my Spidermen? Hi guys! I missed you so much,” you coo as you hug them both at once, looking behind them at the still quiet third companion that always trails behind them. You hold out the hand closest to the baby and beckon him forth, “And my Jisung, you look so handsome in your suit!” He’s complied with the dress code perfectly, in the same suit he wore to your ballet performance, even slicking his hair back like Jaehyun likes to wear for formal occasions. He smiles so sweetly and clings onto your hand with no hesitation, like he spent all of Christmas break glued to your side.

“Who’s Mary Jane, I thought you said your girlfriend was coming? Is that her?”

You let the kids go to see Jaehyun standing by another young man that’s towering over him. This newcomer is huge and all angled with handsome features, possessing two forearms full of tattoos under his rolled up dress shirt sleeves, leather jacket discarded on the table beside him. They’re both looking at the ancient woman in the muumuu that’s standing at the head of the room.

Jaehyun groans with amusement and punches the guy in the arm, “That’s the officiant, dickwad.” Your stifled giggle catches both of their attentions, and you wave at them when they both glance your way. Jaehyun mutters the introductions, like he’s displeased to do so, “Y/n, this is Johnny, Jack’s son. Johnny, this is y/n, my _friend_ from high school.”

You’re entertained by double shot of expressions you get from the pair of them. First, Johnny’s _damn, that’s her, why the hell did you deny the girlfriend thing?_ kind of saucy glance. Second, Jaehyun’s generous eye roll, the annoyed _she’s my best friend but still, don’t you dare try something_.

Johnny’s self satisfied grin makes you laugh when you greet him politely and Jaehyun splutters in righteous indignancy as the taller man bends over to kiss your hand in place of a spoken response. Johnny takes his sweet time in removing his fingers from yours, only riling up your friend further, who he then lightly shoves in playfulness and saunters away from. Johnny joins what looks to be an exact copy of him fast-forwarded thirty years, their faces almost identical save for the greying hair on Ms. Jung’s fiancé.

“Was that a negative or positive dickwad,” you ask, intrigued at the interaction between the soon to be stepbrothers.

“Positive,” Jaehyun admits like he doesn’t want to, then actually gushes, “he’s cool as fuck. Took me to get a tattoo the other day.”

You hit him with your purse full on as you yelp, “You—, you what?!”

_He got a tattoo and didn’t tell me?! What the heck?_

Jaehyun grins, cheeky like the troublemaker you’re finding out he is, and he rolls up a lilac sleeve to expose the back of his elbow. Right above the joint, on the smooth skin of his tricep, is a delicate little trio of eighth notes, marked into permanence in black ink.

You tickle his ribs for a second and tease, “Oh, that barely counts, you lame nerd. Of course you got music notes.”

He huffs, though he’s clearly not mad, and whines, “Well, it’s not like I was going to get a sleeve like he has right away!”

You can’t picture him with an arm full of tattoos at all, especially not with the glasses he has on right now. It’s just not him, though it’s a funny mental picture for you.

“Ooookay Mr. Badass,” you continue to rib at him, enjoying how flustered he’s getting. “I’ll wait for the leather jacket and the motorcycle to come out any time now.”

“Jae’s never going to be anything other than a nerd, don’t get your hopes up,” Mark quips as he joins you. He’s dressed in jeans and a button-down, his compromise for attending the ceremony despite his lack of positive emotions towards it.

You ruffle his hair from where it’s been gelled, so it looks more like he usually wears it when you're through, a silent, _I get that you hate this and here’s me helping you_. You wink at him in greeting, “Nice to see you too, Snarky.”

You’re surprised Ms. Jung hasn’t decided to do this at church, but you also know it’s quite expensive, even for a member of the clergy, to rent out the venue for an occasion like this. The restaurant most likely gave up this space free for two employees. They’ve set up a few rows of chairs in the restaurant’s back reception room, and it’s lined with a mediocre, yet suitable enough garland strands of daisies by the makeshift altar. The daisy boutonniere and corsage you’d picked up at the grocery store match the decorations, too. It’s not like the venue is empty though — there’s quite a few coworkers, friends, people you don’t recognize and you can tell this couple is cherished genuinely by the people in their lives.

Jisung wants to sit with you instead of at the front with his brothers, not having let go of your hand this whole time. You hoist him into your lap, then you’re struck by the sight of Jaehyun and his mother walking down the makeshift aisle. He’s taking the place of duty beside her because she has no one else, wearing a smile, the perfect son like you know he is. You have no idea how he’s able to keep the emotional turmoil that’s raging inside of him under control for this long.

“Everyone, we are gathered here today to witness the union of these two individuals, Jihye Jungand Jack Suh.”

During the ceremony, it’s not your place to have any thoughts or opinions other than happiness. Jisung looks happy enough from where you can see his bright little smile, the twins are as ebullient as ever, fidgeting around at the front of the room with their older brothers.The couple certainly seems beyond happy to have found each other, they haven’t stopped beaming since they’ve stepped to each face each other under the eye of God. Jaehyun told you this is how it always started - his head is turned as he corrals the twins, so you can’t see his expression - but is it wrong for you to have hope this might turn out different?

 _I take you to be mine, to have and to hold, from this day forward - for better, for worse, for richer, for poorer, in sickness and in health, till death do us part?_ _It’s not a horrific or otherwise outlandish set of promises, when made to the right person. Trouble is, how can I ever be sure what kind of person that is? It’s not like I have a shining example of what to look for._

“You may kiss your bride.”

From your seat all the way in the back, you see the way Jaehyun’s shoulders deflate, a pained affectation you don’t miss.

“My sweethearts,” Jaehyun’s mother beckons to her children after she’s let the full course of wondrous affection fill her up. “Come here and hug your new daddy!”

_Sigh. Just when I’d convinced myself to be nothing but happy for her._

Jisung clings to your shoulders tightly, like he doesn’t want to leave the discreet backseat you’d been in for the ceremony. You don’t blame him for it, nor are you surprised. Kids are often smarter than people think. Even though he’s heavier than before, you still manage to pick him up in your arms and carry him to the front, to where the other children are gathered. The bride smiles brightly when she sees you approaching with her son. You thank yourself for the years of practice you have, ensuring you’re able to be the perfect guest. You manage to air kiss her on the cheek without giving up hold on the child, knowing he doesn’t want to let go with how tightly his nails are digging into the open back of your dress.

“Ms. Jung, I mean _Mrs. Suh_ ,” you make the correction on purpose because you know she’ll like to hear it. “Congratulations on your wedding. It was a beautiful ceremony, I teared up during your vows.” A lie, but again, her blush tells you that’s what she’d wanted to hear.

“Oh, y/n, I wasn’t sure you were going to make it from school. I’ll take him, thank you,” she warbles, voice watery with happiness. She carves Jisung away from your arms, wrinkling her white knee length dress as she does so.

“Wouldn’t have missed it,” you say, then you turn to hold out a proper hand to Jack to introduce yourself. “Hello, sir, congratulations as well. I’m y/n, Jaehyun and I went to high school together. I can really tell that you love each other, and I’m beyond happy that you’ve found each other in this way.”

You’ve said it on the whim that no one in her family has properly expressed the sentiment to her. Jaehyun told you his grandparents on this side had long passed on, and it must hurt for her to be alone. She tears up, of course, and her voice cracks, _of course_ , “Honey, thank you so much for that. I’m just glad we can finally be a proper family now, don’t you think?”

You suppress a wince, because she should’ve never thought the family was incomplete in any way before. But you don’t let it show and you certainly don’t turn to take stock in any other reactions.

Jack takes it all in stride, how easily he agrees with the idea of a fixed family makes you wonder if he shares the same personality traits with his wife, “I’ve missed this, that’s for sure.” He addresses you, Jaehyun, and Mark directly after, “I hope you kids have fun tonight. Everything is on me, remember.”

“On the restaurant, honey!”

“Basically the same thing, isn’t it.”

At their lovey-dovey back and forth, you catch Mark’s dark mutter, _Gonna gag._ But what throws a wrench in it is that his mother does, too. One joule of lustrous energy cascades out of her face as she tries to figure out if she’s heard her son right, “What was that, sweetheart?”

“Gonna brag about you two! To all my Princeton friends!” You edit the statement with a heft of cheer, glad the words were close enough in sound that you could lie out the wazoo like this. “So lovely!”

You step backwards with a little curtsy - random but you think it fits - and then literally drag Mark and Jaehyun away simultaneously by their arms. You don’t rest and they don’t protest until you’re out of the venue and back in the dimly-lit portion of the bar they’re about to open up for the reception.

“Thank god you’re here, nobody can do that like you,” Mark groans, fist bumping you with appreciation before he pulls his beanie and backpack out from behind the bar. “I’m outta here, rap club is having a party tonight cuz Chan’s mom is on a business trip. You know what to do.” You don’t really know how to interpret the look he shoots Jaehyun, but there’s no protest from the eldest son when the middle one goes stalking off to leave the restaurant.

“You’re really letting him go?” you ask, surprised.

Jaehyun fidgets with his glasses, fixes his hair, itches at his tattoo, then sighs, “That was my bargain with him. He stays for the ceremony and I cover for him at the reception. Seemed best for all involved.” He glances back inside, to where the happy couple are now taking pictures with anyone who wants to, and he tacks on, “Now I’m thinking we should’ve done that too.”

This is proof that your talk with Mark worked, and though you feel the requisite flush of pride, it sucks that this isn’t an overwhelmingly happy moment for everyone involved. Your fingers tap on the wood of the bar as you shoot him a sly smile, “Is this the time we drown our sorrows in booze?”

He jumps to the idea immediately, looking at the bottles lined up behind the counter, muttering, “What won’t they notice?”

“You don’t have to steal, I’m twenty-two already.”

Simultaneously, you look over to see Johnny at a barstool, beer already in hand as he watches you both with amusement. That devolves into full hilarity when Jaehyun tries to deny, “We weren’t going to steal—,”

Johnny drains the dregs of the beer he has, and it’s then you notice he has three already empty in front of him. Damn, okay. He laughs at you both like you’re kids - which you suppose you are compared to him - and he gripes, “Trust me, I’m over them as much as you are, asswipe, plus I know what it’s like to be underage at something like this. What alcohol do you want?”

You and Jaehyun lock glances, and without hesitation he answers, “Double Jack and coke,” just as you blurt, “Champagne with a vodka top up.”

The older man’s eyebrows shoot up at the fact that you’ve both gone right to hard liquor, but he slips down to the end of the bar without any argument. You really wonder when they’ve bonded like this, calling each other dickwad and asswipe like they’ve grown up together. Jaehyun doesn’t usually mention him, not at all really, but still. There’s something there.

“Bro’s mom died two years ago. Car accident.” _Ah, there it is._ “Can’t imagine he’d be ecstatic about this, either. No matter how… happy they actually seem.”

“Mmmmm, that’s terrible,” you hum in sympathy, not knowing the acute pain of losing a parent in that way but having the vaguest of ideas. “But everyone deserves someone, I guess.”

Jaehyun’s mouth does a funny little dance of a smile that makes your heart do the exact same thing.

Johnny returns not minutes later. Instead of holding two glasses in hand, he’s holding two bottles, one an entirely full bottle of Jack Daniel’s and the other, the finest bottle of mediocre champagne Punchbowl serves. Jaws hung open in surprise like you’re the catch of the day listed on the blackboard, you take the bottles from him, and hide them in your bag. He grins, surely remembering the time when he was your age, and teasingly warns, “Don’t tell on me, young ones. The auto shop crew is rolling through any second now, so I don’t think they’ll miss it if you leave.”

Here’s the out Jaehyun had been waiting for, and you’ll take it on his behalf before his goody two shoes mind says anything else, “Thanks a lot. We really appreciate it.”

Johnny’s a good one, you can feel it.

You take Jaehyun’s hand and together you walk the back pathway to his neighborhood. The party won’t be over for some time and her coworkers can watch the younger kids, so there’s no guilt in shirking the responsibility. But since the walkway is secluded by trees and there’s no one out on this random Tuesday night, Jaehyun decides to swig right from the bottle of Jack’s as you stroll. Which is an interesting move… but mostly a concerning one, considering he decides to do it in silence and makes far more progress on the bottle than he should have.And he’s been wearing a firm scowl ever since the first swig.

“Are you okay?” you ask when you’re inside his empty home and the door is firmly locked, dropping on the ottoman with sudden exhaustion as you watch him continue to drink. “Just the… general demeanor and the fact the booze is already half gone.”

He takes a particularly large gulp and then slurs, “You want to know something that I didn’t want you to know?” He’s drunk and wants to play the game that you used to, but he also sounds so angry that you understand he really just wants to get something off his chest. You have no way to prepare for what that actually is, “I actually knew my dad.”

Your entire lofty exhale is trapped in your throat, escaping only in a strangled hiss of air, “What?”

“He and Momma got divorced when I was three, but I can still hear his laugh so clearly. Used to call me Hyunie pie. His brother’s keyboard, the one we keep here, was what I learned on.That’s the last happy memory of him I have.” His eyes are closed as he speaks, but gosh, you can just conjure up the sight of how sparkly they were when he was a kid, when his tiny hands burst forth that sweet music for the first time.

“But you said….?” you whisper, not able to finish the thought, _but you said you never wanted to know him._

He chuckles bitterly, sounding like he’s never known what laughing for pleasure was before, and continues, “I don’t know if they grew apart or what, she’s never said. I just remember him being gone and then I had a baby brother. I don’t even remember M’s dad, not really.” He takes off his glasses to rub a distressed hand all over his face, which you know is working to conceal the break in his voice when he confesses, “I looked him up when I was a junior, when the curiosity finally killed me. He’s married again, has a house in Tribeca or something with a whole bunch of kids, hasn’t called me once. He lives right across the river, prima donna, I could've passed him on the street at school.”

_I’m so heartbroken for you, you know. This is truly the cruelest of fates the world could deem upon a child, and they’d picked the sweetest one to destroy. How had you turned out into this wondrous person despite it all?_

“So here I am, telling Mark to get over his moods, and prepping the peanuts to meet yet another guy, walking my mother down the aisle with a big fucking smile on my face when I’m seething inside with anger that she’s still hung up on Dad,” Jaehyun claws at his chest, his heart keening to burst with the recollection, not healed, pooling with the tender blood of abandonment and self loathing. He notices your shocked face and laughs again with a sneer, “I know she is, I’ve seen the pictures. You don’t know this because she hides it well in public, but sometimes she has a hard time looking at me because I look just like him.”

The picture in her bedroom Mark mentioned, of Jaehyun’s birthday party as a baby. You’ve never seen it but it’s sure to be so joyously cheerful. Why had their family fallen apart when it seems like all they ever wanted was to stay together?

“I’m like…” He’s not speaking to you anymore, he’s acting out this pretend conversation with his mother you know he’s had a million times over the past sixteen years, “Why didn’t you stay with him then, because I miss him so fucking much all the time, we could’ve been a family.” He discards his glasses, his entire face going into his hands, projecting the saddest sight yet as he whispers, “Then I feel guilty, because if she did that I would’ve never had my brothers, who I love so much. And I _do_ want my mom to be happy, and fuck. I never know what to do.”

He’s frothing in despair, not crying yet, which somehow makes it even worse, that he’s trying to hold it in. You’re compelled to get up, to curl right into his side on the couch and hug him with all the care in the world, murmuring, “I think you’re trying your best. The kids might not know how to show it, but I’m more than sure they appreciate you.”

You’d be willing to be your life savings - and you’d never say this to anyone, even him - that those boys love him more than they love their own mother. But that’s not the appropriate thought to convey right now.

Not when he’s dropping his most secret confession, one that literally tortures him as it crawls past his lips, “I would rather die than ever make a kid of mine feel like that. I swear on you that I never would.”

It’s too much for you to bear now, his sadness.

You pry a hand off his face, so one of his eyes flutters open behind it. You crane your head around so you can lock gazes and assure him, “I know you. You would never do that.”

_You’re going to make such a wonderful husband to whoever you marry, whichever girl knows how to love you in the manner you deserve, who’s lucky enough to wear the white dress for you, to have a cute baby you’ll love forever. I’m sure of that. You’d never, ever do something so horrible._

“It feels like everybody needs me but I can’t need anyone in return. Like, where do I get to be happy in all of this?”

That’s a heavy thought, and the dull blankness in his usually beautiful eyes indicates he’s been tortured by this for some time. It’s not an easy fix, these scars have been branded onto his heart for many, many years, to the point where it would take extensive legwork to even begin getting him over this. But you think of what you told Mark, how you need to pick your battles, and you have a strategy, at least for right now.

Cupping his face so he’s not hunched in pain, you gently begin, “Apart from all of this, your brothers make you happy, right?” His head moves up and down in your hold, a tentative nod, “You like Columbia and playing the piano there?” A nod. “You get along with your roommate, your conductor likes you?”Yet another nod.“See? You at least have all those wonderful, little things to be happy about.”

_If long term happiness is an unattainable goal for you, you have to at least know that it’s not totally hopeless. Sort of, kind of._

But maybe you’ve knocked it out of the park without intending to, because Jaehyun leans back and graces you with the prettiest grin you’ve ever seen him wear as he murmurs, “All of that, plus you, prima donna.”

You make him happy? That makes you happy. It’s a symphonious loop, threading between the two of you like a needle’s stitched you together. And also like hot magma’s been doused over your cheeks with the way you’re blushing. You don’t even have the champagne as an excuse - it still hasn’t been opened.

“Hey, I forgot to ask, how’d your dance thingy go?” he asks out of nowhere, sad topic forgotten, or moving by it on purpose.

“I have a lot of dance things,” you joke, both trying to liven the mood and unsure of what he’s talking about, considering you’d just had a whirlwind, deadening week of finals.

He pokes your cheek when clarifying, “Your pas de deux final project. That was your last final, wasn’t it?”

“Crushed it. Got an A despite it not feeling right up until the end,” you smile as you raise your arms in victory. “I think that contemporary just isn’t our thing.”

Professor Seo had kind of hated it, _too ambitious, more like students attempting to play at professionals,_ she’d said, and hated it even more when you and Taeyong burst out laughing at her critique because you'd felt the same way. But you’d fulfilled all the requirements, and your pointe work was exquisite, so she’d had no choice but to give you an A. The lifts never quite worked the way you wanted them to, and you’d had to conceal one of his stumbles, but you made it.

“Or maybe he just isn’t the right partner,” Jaehyun drunkenly muses. “Not like me.” Your eyes slam closed with a giggle, annoyed and amused he’s puffing himself up like this in his intoxicated mind, that he’s somehow a better dance partner for you even though he’s never taken a class in his life. When you open your eyes, though, he’s suddenly gone to stand in front of you, holding out a hand like he’s a prince in your ballets. “It’s my mom’s wedding day. We have to dance at least once.”

“That would make you happy?” you shyly question, chin tucking into your shoulder at the onset of fluttering emotion that’s billowed into your chest.

“It would.”

You spend the night waltzing around Jaehyun’s living room to Lover played quietly on your phone, looping over and over and over until you feel sick to your stomach from sweetness. There’s no costumes, no choreography, no dance legend sitting in front of you with a pen, ready to grade. It’s just your hand in his, and that pretty grin not fading from his face, not once.

And after, you let him take you to bed because you suspect _(know)_ that that will make you both happy as well.

**tbc.**

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> thank u guys for reading! xo hope u have a wonderful week ahead


	8. en avant: travelling forwards

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> I think the city of love is technically Paris, but I suppose Mijoo’s right in a way. It is kind of romantic here.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> uh? surprise?

The latest Kai album is absolutely _blasting_ in the tiny bathroom of the loft of the AirBnb, Mijoo’s yelling the lyrics at the top of her lungs in an effort to teach you about a new music genre, but you still hear Joy’s shriek above it all,

“Ahhhhh! I don’t have my shoes!”

Kai sings the word _fuck_ on appropriate timing as you reach over into your spare duffel bag and pull out a pair of glittery, strappy heels. She’d been so frazzled leaving your apartment that you, the quintessential good roommate, noticed that she’d forgotten them in the dining room. You’d stowed them neatly into your duffel besides the nude heels that went fine with your maroon dress. You wave a hand to catch her attention from looking through her suitcase in a frantic panic, “Yoohoo, I have them, two. You left them on our table.”

“Thanks, one, you’re a lifesaver,” she sighs, hopefully the most dramatic thing that will happen on this weekend trip to the city.

When she reaches for the shoes, though, you stand on the bed so they’re out of range, and you fix her with a devilish smirk, “You get them….” You raise your voice for the other girls to hear you, “Only if you kiss Ten tonight.”

Joy flashes you her middle finger, and you pretend to be stabbed with offense when she gripes, “I hate you.”

“He’s been pining over you since last semester,” you remind her, because only you here knows that it’s been even longer than that.

Ever since that awful party you’d escaped, they’d started up their careful flirtationship once again. But that seemed to have gone nowhere over the summer, when Taeyong was by your side in every class possible before leaving for London. It’s definitely hesitation on her part, not his, because Ten had helped you move into your new apartment and he only ever carried in the boxes labeled _Thing Two_.

Mijoo looks up from where she’s cracking open a bottle of cheap champagne and sends a saucy grin Joy's way. “He’s also literally here as your date.”

“Thank you!” You exclaim, mock bowing to your friend in gratitude for being your ally, “Thank you, Mijoo, for saying it!” Joy shoots you a death glare and you just shake your head in disappointment, “Don’t give me that look. Remember moving day?”

“Tee would never—,”

You pay no heed to the same attempt at a fumbled excuse she always gives you, _Tee would never let me date one of his friends._ You don’t see that damn IcyHair fool anywhere here in this apartment, and you tell her that, “Your idiot brother has been in London all semester. How the heck would he know?” There’s little to nothing Taeyong can glean out of the once a week FaceTime call he shares with his family, unless Ten is the kind of guy who blabs his business, which you’re pretty sure he is not.

“Come onnnnn Joy, we’re in New York, the city of love.”

_I think the city of love is technically Paris, but I suppose Mijoo’s right in a way. It is kind of romantic here._

It was a tradition for those in the ballet program that the director would take them on a trip to New York over Indigenous People’s Day weekend — to relax, sightsee, and take a fun master class with principal dancer Jongin Kim at the Troupe of American Ballet. This year, each one of you was allowed to invite a date. Chungha brought the guy she’s been hooking up with, Yugyeom or whoever, Mijoo and Shownu have been a thing for a hot second, and you’re fairly confident Momo’s boyfriend Heechul is with the other seniors even though he’s not a dancer at all.

“Wwe’re here because we’re about to absolutely die during Nutcracker rehearsals for the next two months. What better way to end your freedom than by finally hooking up with the super yummy guy who clearly adores you,” Mijoo says in a sing-song voice, trying to egg Joy on even further.

“Please don’t ever use yummy as an adjective again,” you grumble, hating that particular turn of phrase yet appreciating the sentiment. “But I agree with the premise.”

Chungha peers around the corner from where she’s curling her hair and hits you with the bomb of a casual question, “Wait, y/n, did you bring a date?”

You shake your head, unable to use Joy as your cop-out answer. “No.”

“Thing one has a friend that lives in New York, remember?” Joy slyly interjects. She’s doing this in an effort to get back at you about what you said in regards to Ten, you fix her with the most severe _keep your big fat mouth shut_ stare and literally peg her with her shoes, which she screams and ducks at.

“The supposedly ‘nerdy hot’ pianist?” Mijoo scoffs, having done this song and dance with both of you before. “He’s not real, right? I’ve never seen a picture of him, have you?”

Momo shakes her head, like _here we go again,_ and here you go again. You don’t talk about Jaehyun, it’s just a thing that you do. Joy caught on right away, only ever referring to him as _picture guy_ or in the broad, outlining strokes of who he is. You don’t blame the others - who you got close to over the summer and thus haven’t met him in person - for thinking he’s fake. That’s because Joy has only seen the parts of him that come off as unreal.

You’re used the way that they all roll their eyes and nudge Chungha to try once more, “Is that who you’re bringing? Or are you trying to fool us again in setting you up. I can have a Bumble made for you in like, two minutes.” They’ve also somehow been under the impression that this ‘hot pianist' is someone you’ve made up to prevent them from matchmaking you with any of the frat brothers they know. It’s not.

“No,” you deny, thinking of the very real texts from Jaehyun in your phone right now. “His orchestra has a mixer thing tonight and he’s busy tomorrow, and you know we’re not dating.”

“Not real!” Momo exclaims, convinced now that this person does not exist. Chungha nods vigorously and Mijoo seems like she believes it too, “Is his name also Chris Pine?”

You roll your eyes, obvious and in plain view so that they can see you don’t appreciate what they’re doing. “Are you ready yet?” you grumble, to the very immediate chorus of _Nos_ that come from the girls, except for Joy, who, from living together, has primed herself to know that you always like to be punctual.

She glances down at her shoes, grimacing at what that means by you handing them over. She gulps it away, straps them on and waves a hand to your friends, making the decision to leave first without them.

The boys in the program are staying in an AirBnb two or three avenues over from you - they’d found a chic restaurant in the area that could fit all of you for an evening of dancing and merriment before your classes. You decide to forgo the cab ride for a nice stroll along the flashing lights of Times Square, hating the tourists but loving how small it makes you feel, like being insignificant for these fifteen minutes is the greatest sensation you never want to leave.

When you’re a few blocks from the restaurant, Joy checks her phone again and frowns in annoyance, “Krystal hasn’t answered any of my texts in the family group chat today about coming, but maybe she’ll see us tomorrow.”

You’d officially met the eldest Lee sister over the past summer, first at the Lee's annual summer ball, then again when she’d come to help you and Joy shop for furniture after moving. Her no-nonsense personality was actually a hit with you, no matter how much it bothered Joy. You were fairly certain she liked you too, because she’d bought you a nice storage Ottoman you’d been eyeing without you asking. She had moved into a super fancy Midtown penthouse after coming back to the city post graduation travel tour, and you’d been dying to go check out the architecture.

“I can’t wait to see that fancy apartment she has,” you sigh dreamily, knowing that that kind of place is your ultimate goal once you move here.

“Yeah, we can definitely go, it’s close to where the boys are staying.” Joy agrees, but then changes the subject out of the blue, “By the way, why do you keep it a secret?”

“What?”

She tilts her head in a _duh_ manner, and you can’t help the nervous prick of goosebumps that follows whenever this subject comes up. She’s your best friend, knows how to pry these anxious feelings right out of you without you even realizing it, “You know. The only reason I don’t say anything more than that is because you never do.”

Joy’s yet again wondering why you don’t bring up Jaehyun any more than you have to. _Like the hundreds of other times you’ve asked, I don’t have an answer. Well, no answer beyond the weird, itchy sensation of malevolence that had burned in my chest when I saw Sana’s unanswered messages in his phone. I’m selfish enough to never want to feel that way again._

That’s the answer you choose to go with, punctuated by a shrug to make it seem like you don’t actually care about it, “I don’t know, I’m a selfish girl who thinks our friendship will be ruined if I share him with anyone else?”

“For the most pragmatic person I know, you’re a drama queen,” Joy teases as she nudges you in the side, silently telling you she’s joking.

“At one point, he was the only person I had,” you murmur, hand pressed against your chest in a feeble effort to get your discomforted heart to calm back down. “It sometimes feels like that still.”

Joy is a part of your life now, probably the sweetest friend you’ll ever get to have. You have an actual friend group from your program, kind acquaintances, study partners and mentors, all who support you with the kind of fervent enthusiasm you’d never gotten before. But you’ve worked hard to build up that network from the bottomless pit of nothingness you once felt trapped in. The only hand ever extended to help you was from the random boy who’d happened to get assigned to play piano for your ballet class. There are moments, though — like when your mother had reappeared for that one and only time last year — where despite the help and the well-wishes from others, Jaehyun was the only person who could make you feel okay after that.

“I get it,” she affirms, and all her features soften in affection towards you. “And I’m glad he actually exists for that reason.”

You’re about to laden her with a sappy compliment about how you don’t deserve a best friend like her, when she opens the door to the restaurant and you stop dead in your tracks right there in the entryway. She goes over to speak to the maître d' about the reservation, oblivious to what you’re looking at. You then have to catatonically stalk to where she is, poking her with possessed effort to get her to look.

“Joy. Joy.” _What_ , she hisses, and your mouth moves slowly as you stare, “I don’t want to alarm you, but I’m fairly sure Minho is right there at the bar.”

It’s exactly him, there’s few that can look that good in casual nonchalance — martini glass in hand as he surveys the empty room, leaned back against the bar in his pressed dress shirt like he’d come right over from the Lee LLC headquarters in FiDi. _This isn’t going to be good. She spent the whole summer specifically keeping his name out of her mouth in the last ditch effort to get over her crush, and I thought it’d worked. Because, you know. Ten?_

“Wha— oh my god,” Joy breathes, panic immediately shooting into her words, “Oh my god, I forgot he was in the family group chat, what is he doing here?”

“Almond Joy!” Minho calls as he waves a hand, beckoning her closer in a siren’s call that frankly, neither of you can resist.

As you walk over, half-entranced by how good he looks yourself, you mutter under your breath, “He’s…. here for you? Is Krystal surprising us?” Joy’s eyes go wide with the subtle shake of her head. The two of you are completely at a loss as to why he’d randomly shown up to your ballet program’s night out.

“Hey ladies, looking gorgeous as ever,” Minho drawls, as if this is everyday happenstance for him. “Thought I’d walk over and see how my two favorite ballerinas were doing.”

_What the heck?_

It is all kinds of strange Joy’s sister’s boyfriend has shown up without her just to surprise both of you. When you look at Joy, she’s trying to keep her face composed — you hope with all your might that that moony eyed gleam she gets when she’s around someone she likes does not appear.

“Where’s my sister, is she here with you—,” Joy starts to ask, but you don’t catch the end of it or Minho’s response.

You feel a hand on your shoulder instead and look to the side to see one of the waiters gesturing back towards the front of the restaurant, apparently with a message for you _._ That’s bizarre. Your name is on the guest list as an event organizer, maybe there was some kind of issue in regards to the space you’d reserved? Or your friends had called ahead because they ran into trouble? You feel the vague stirs of worry creep up into you until you hear it,

“Hi.”

The moment you get to the front of the restaurant you spin in place like a drunk idiot despite your sobriety, knowing that exact deep voice. You do it so fast you nearly miss him standing right by the door, clad in a beautiful grey peacoat you’d gotten him for his last birthday, glasses set reliably on his nose, hair swept up in the fall breeze.

Jaehyun has his cool smirk at the ready, one that only deepens with his amusement, dimples flashing when you exclaim in delight, “You always do this!”

“Because you love it every time,” he preens, content with himself for surprising you like this. “Now come on, prima donna, are we having a night on the town or what?”

Of course you’re going to have a night on the town with Jaehyun, you don’t get to see him that often, let alone here in the city you’re both so enamored with. But when you glance behind you, to where Joy is speaking with Minho at a respectable distance you’re proud of, you groan. She’s never going to let you live this down, especially after you’d spent the whole day denying you were bringing a date. And he’s already laughing at your internal dilemma as you walk away, knowing what you’re thinking.

Minho and Joy are chatting — she has a glass of wine in her hand he must’ve gotten for her because you’re certainly still underage. Nothing looks too overtly flirty to you… maybe he leans in a bit too close, or her smile is a smidge coyer than you would’ve liked, but you feel comfortable stepping away and letting her navigate the waters herself. She has to do it on her own at some point.

You clear your throat very loudly, and they jump slightly. “Ahem. Hi. I need to steal Joy for a second.”

With an amused grin, Minho turns away so his back is facing you two. You swear you pick up just the slightest hint of annoyance in her voice when she asks, “What’s up?”

“Look. over. there,” you mutter under your breath.

When Joy sees Jaehyun standing at the door, phone pressed to his ear in a call, he gives her a sarcastic wave of the hand. She subtly flashes her middle finger at him in return against the glass of her wine.

“You two disgust me,” she gripes. You hesitate, wondering if you should invite him to stay and risk all of what comes with that instead of running off and abandoning her. But luckily for you, Joy is kind enough to make the decision, “Go, go! I’ll be here, drinking my wine, keeping my big fat mouth shut when the girls arrive.”

You give her a twenty to get whatever she wants in gratitude for her letting you do this, and you run - yes, literally run, you’re an idiot - to the front of the restaurant to scoop up Jaehyun and go out into the city. He’s talking on the phone with someone — the wind is too loud, and then the subway screeches over his end of the conversation, you can’t make out who it is, but you don’t care. _If he talked for the rest of the night and didn’t give me an ounce of attention, I’d be fine with it, content just to sit on the train with my legs crossed onto his._

After you get off at the Columbia stop, his call somehow still connected - a feat considering you were underground and your own crappy phone's universal poor service - he turns on the video. You're treated to the image of a very sleepy Mark, hair all over the place, eyes half lidded as he waves at you, then sarcastically gripes, "Are you two ever not together?"

"Very nice to see you too, Snark," you answer in full ignorance, just as his brother turns red. "Did you put up the posters this week?"

Junior class president elections are this week, and though things were better at home, he'd taken up your idea to run anyway. You'd spent all of your time photoshopping Mark into your most-liked photos from high school so that he could flex the nepotistic connection into winning the position. Not that you think he needs your help - you'd heard his campaign speech, and it was actually full of good ideas, like more free periods for clubs and fewer on-campus restrictions. 

He yawns, wide open mouth filling up the screen, though the garbled words are easy to understand, "Put 'em up and immediately went into the lead. Though I don't know why people still find you cool considering you and my nerd brother are dat—," 

"Goodbye, Mark!" Jaehyun brusquely ends the call before his sibling can re-hash the ever present dilemma.

You lock eyes on the corner of the sidewalk you're standing on, then break into absolutely foolish laughter, the two of you guffawing away under the city lights at the hilarity of it. He grabs your hand and you go running across the street against the light, narrowly missing getting hit by a bike, which only makes you laugh harder. Once you're on the other side of the street, you pull him into a hug, so happy to be with him once again after the past two months of school.

“How’s he doing?” you ask, wanting to make Mark is okay outside of what he'd been telling you. 

“Good, though I did wake him up, which is actually why I didn’t want to talk long,” Jaehyun answers with a wry chuckle, realizing you may have been reading into other things. “He went to bed at like, eight. He’s been tired recently, always napping and stuff. Junior year, you know?”

You know, you’d stayed up late as recently as last weekend helping Mark with his physics assignments, taking a pause through your own marketing in the arts assignments to do so. He’d looked so exhausted on your laptop, dark circles bruised under his eyes, long bangs everywhere, unable to stop yawning. You can relate, you felt like that was the permanent state of existence when you were a junior, cramming every single thing into your resume before applying to Princeton.

You commiserate, “Ugh, that year really messed with me.”

“Yeah, messed you into getting valedictorian,” Jaehyun teases, knowing exactly how your high school saga ended.

“Whatever,” you gripe, before leaning right back into his chest with a delighted sigh, “I can’t believe you’re here!” You’d accepted you couldn’t see him this trip after he’d texted you his schedule and found that he also had a full load of events going on, as busy as you both were. That makes this feel so much more special.

He shrugs it off like he’s a nobody and not the Juilliard symphony’s lead pianist, “Who needs a mixer anyways, it was to welcome the freshmen and no one would miss me. So, what are we doing tonight? We have to do something.” That last sentence has been tacked on knowing Doyoung was the one who dragged you to the parties you’ve been to, and every other time you both end up working together in his room or on the phone with Mark.

“I’d take you to a bar, but we only have one fake between the two of us.” He pulls out his card, making a face at the awkward ID photo of him whoever had made this used, and gripes, “and I don’t think you look like… Jeffrey Byun from California.”

You’re amused that this thing even still works for him, yet at the same time you want to feel one ounce less uncool than you do around him as of late. Like, when did he get all fratty and manly and carefree, skipping obligatory events and going to bars underage? He'd spent the weeks of summer you stayed with him working with Johnny at the auto shop and you'd had to sit around there and not stare when they both took their tank tops off to do pull-ups in the back. 

Because of all that, before your mind convinces you not to, you’re blurting, “Let’s get tattoos!”

Jaehyun stops in the middle of the empty crosswalk you’re in and looks at you with total surprise, “What? P.d., are you serious?”

“Dead serious.”

“Are you sure? You’ve never gotten one before and you hate blood.”

Your pain tolerance is negative, he knows the way you tear up after getting a paper cut, you shut your eyes the moment you can see one drop of red. But you can always look away, no? You take the opportunity to rib him all the same, “You’re acting like you’re some sort of expert when you have like…. two? I’d take your word if you were Johnny.”

“Hey!” He gasps in mock offense, “I have five!”

Every time his stepbrother comes into the city to pick up parts for the auto shop, the two men go out and get fresh ink together. They’ve somehow bonded by their reluctant acceptance of their parents’ still strong relationship and their strange, shared affinity for the body modifications. You’ve only seen the second oldest addition to the collection, a watercolor-stained outline of Spiderman on his left bicep, and didn’t know he’d added to the collection even further.

“Who cares. I want to do it. I want to do it with you. Please.” You’ve come to learn he has a hard time saying no to you, especially when you say it like that. _I want to do it with you._

“Okay, fine.” _Score._ Jaehyun changes directions so you’re going up the street instead of down it, explaining, “There’s a shop a block from my place that I go to. But please don’t get something cliché.”

You scoff in mock affront at his accusation, “That’s rich, coming from the man who got Spiderman because of his younger brothers. That’s so freaking cliché it’s not even a cliché anymore!”

“You know I’m kidding, idiot,” he chuckles, bumping his shoulder into yours. “I just meant that tattoos are special. You should get something you want to remember forever.”

You’ve heard the superficial stories behind his tattoos already — the music notes were a representation of him, Spiderman was a promise to the twins for good behavior during their mother’s honeymoon to Florida. But the poignant way he utters those words makes you want to learn the deep troughs of feeling behind them, to know every hidden reason why they’re special to him. 

_Tell me, tell me, I want to know it all. We’ll be together for a few more hours tonight, so I can ask then, but first, I'm going to get my own tattoo_.

The counter guy at the tattoo parlor knows Jaehyun by name, bumping fists with him right away as soon as you come in together. He laughs out loud when he finds out you’re 'the' ballerina, because apparently your best friend has talked about you. You’ve already decided you’re going to get something on your left hand as the location of your first - and probably only - design, but you’re still unsure of what you should get. You could get a pointe shoe, but after what Jaehyun teased you about, he’s definitely going to find that cliché, no matter what. A Princeton logo is not something you totally love, and you would never get, like, initials or dates of birth of your family, for obvious reasons.

“Do you know what you want?” Jaehyun calls from the other room, where the only other open chair was. “I’m getting–,”

“Wait, don’t tell me,” you interrupt before he can go any further. “Let’s keep it a secret and show each other when we’re done.” You don’t want see his judgey face while you’re in the middle of the process. You have too much of a regret complex to not stop the artist in the middle of his work if you see that your best friend hates it.

“Okay, prima donna,” Jaehyun agrees with a chuckle, “whatever you want.”

The way he looks at you around the wooden banister of the door is so easy and familiar, eyes coated in warmth, that you can only think of one thing that you want. Something you want to remember forever, just like he’d said.

The artist’s name is Matthew, he’s huge and has a kraken tattooed on his neck. He’s friendly enough despite his outer appearance, and make sure he talks while he works on your hand, noticing your total avoidance at looking down. The design you chose was fairly small, so it feels like the tattoo is started and finished in a blink of an eye. You barely feel the cool sting of the sanitary alcohol and the more intense pain of the needle, because when Matthew has to focus and can’t talk that freely, Jaehyun messages you from his spot in the other room. And when you feel the hot bubble of blood from your skin, you don't feel that nauseated because you have something to focus on.

It only takes an hour, the clock on the wall reads twelve forty five when Matthew sighs in contentment that he's finished. With extra reassurance there's no visible blood left, he wraps your skin in the protective wrap, and lets you see your marked skin for the first time. At the sight of it, you're doused with a bucket of satisfaction.

_I hadn’t expected much, but now it’s almost as if I’d been born with it. It fits that flawlessly that I can’t imagine myself without it. What a crazy night, what kind of person am I to go out and get tattoo on a whim? I’d never wanted one. That’s not me, that sort of thing required at least a pros and cons list first._

Jaehyun still has a bit to go according to his artist, so you pull your jacket on, pay Matthew with a very generous tip for how well he’d made your first experience go, and walk out of the shop to search for pizza. There's a mom & pop shop only a block away, line going out the door with drunk college students getting the carbs fix, and you aren't even mad that you have to wait, despite your hunger. New York at this time of night is your favorite, alive and quiet all at once, familiar yet totally mysterious. You just know you're going to fit in here once you move, that this sort of night will happen all the time when you do. 

Your best friend is waiting for you outside of the shop by the time he gets back, foot propped up on the brick wall, eyes closed as he lets the fall night air wash over his face. You tap your heel rudely on the sidewalk so you catch his attention, then hold out the box in your right hand, “I got pizza for me. I want to go home and eat.”

“You mean for us, right?” Jaehyun asks after you start to walk away to make sure he understands you’re serious about the food being only for yourself. He holds out an arm to stop you, taking the pizza from your hands as he asks, “Wait, aren’t you going to show me what you got?”

“Oh yeah,” you mutter, ticked off that you’re stopped in action from getting home and enjoying the pizza like you’ve made clear you want to do. “Here it is.”

You stick out your left hand to show him. The design under the plastic wrap is the delicate outline of a flower in bloom, carefully placed under the knuckle of your ring finger on the breadth of the back of your hand.

“Prima donna,” he gulps, “what is that?”

You don’t catch the nervousness in his voice, preoccupied as you are with trying to steal the box back to begin eating before you get back to your Airbnb because you can’t wait that long. But you suppose you don't have a right to be annoyed he's stalling, because he probably doesn't recognize it. 

Waving your hand in his face again, you explain, “It’s a lily. You know, from Giselle.”

Your favorite flower, the hallmark of your second favorite ballet, the buds you saved for as long as you could after your performances.

The pizza is pushed back into your hands, but before you can rejoice in victory, you’re hit with the image of Jaehyun unbuttoning his coat. Furthermore undoing the dress shirt he has on underneath, exposing the vast expanse of his sculpted chest. You shield your eyes out of instinct, yelping, “You got a chest tattoo?!” But when there’s no response from him, you’re compelled to look, and your pitch goes even higher in mortification when you see what’s marked on him, “What the heck is that?!”

He’s as distressed as you are, panicked voice escaping into the night, “A lily! I bring them to all your performances!”

It’s not quite the exact same as yours, there’s the finespun swoop of a stem and the petals unfold a bit more spaciously across his skin, but it’s dead on, the elegant outline of a lily tattooed right onto his left pec. In the exact kind of location where his fingers would go if he was pledging allegiance to you. Not to the flag, to the country, whatever. To you.

“Why’d you get a tattoo about me?!” you blurt right away.

_I’d chosen the lily because it felt like it was my flower, like it’d been anointed as a symbolic representation of me. You have no otherwise attachment to it, I thought you were going to get something for one of your other brothers!_

“I get one for everyone in my family!” Jaehyun exclaims, now fully stripping in the middle of the abandoned city sidewalk.

Now that you see his bare torso, you realize he couldn’t have gotten a tattoo for his other brothers, because he already has them. There’s the notes on his elbow, and the Spiderman down the length of his bicep. But there’s a bleeding, fiery heart across the front of his forearm, a squiggled outline you can’t make out right by his elbow, and a dreamy patch of creamsicle right over the pulse point on his wrist.

You’re smart enough to put it together, but he explains anyway, in a tender voice you’ve never heard from him before, “You know the music note is me, Spiderman, the twins. But the heart is for Momma which is the real cliché. The mouse outline is Jisung, and that’s an orange beanie.”

An orange beanie is Mark’s signature. The lily is yours. Jaehyun had gotten the same tattoo as you, had gotten a tattoo _of you_.

You feel the panic start to brew, muttering, “This is bad…. This is really bad….”

“What is?”

“Matching tattoos!” you almost shout as you begin to storm away from him. “Matching tattoos are the kiss of death!”

It’s impossible for him not to have heard the very true urban legends of those relationships where one partner got the other’s name tattooed, or they got Bonnie and Clyde tattoos, something ugly and matching and awful like that. They all broke up, never spoke to each other again, and were stuck with permanent reminders of the fact! You’re only friends but you can’t risk that!

As he runs to catch up to you, you hear the anxiety in his voice as he tries to convince himself otherwise, “If you got a tramp stamp that said Jaehyun and I ended up with a back piece that said prima donna in cursive, then maybe!”

“Oh my gosh, what have we done,” you moan in despair, “Joy and I clown people for having matching tattoos!” _I’ve become one of those people! No!_

“Shut up!” he hollers. “It wasn’t on purpose! We didn’t know!”

“We’re officially trashyyyyyyyyy,” you whine, fake crying with the overdramatic tragedy of it all.It’s sweet and funny and serendipitous all at once — you don’t think you have the fortitude to actually be mad at him for anything, because he’s right. Neither of you had known what the other was getting, and you’d ended up with the same design anyway.

“You’re not actually…. mad…. are you?” he ventures as he leads you down another quiet side street, peering deep into your eyes to figure out if you’re pretending or not.

You sigh, like you have the weight of the world on your shoulders, then admit with a eye roll, “Ugh, no.”

“So you’re still going to come home with me?”

You freeze as you peek up into his little coy, hopeful grin, your fingers clutching the pizza box. You didn’t know he was actually intending to bring you to his off campus apartment, you assumed you were going to be sent on your merry way back to the Airbnb when this was done.

He senses that you might decline and right away goes straight into ignorant seduction, “I mean, it’s simply way too far for me to walk you allllll the way back downtown at close to two in the morning.”

A roar of wind from the grate below you gives you the perfect retort, “The subway exists.”

“But we’re here though,” he points out, victorious smile already spreading across his face. He points to the building you’re right beside, completing an undercover job of walking you right to his apartment, fully unaware of the fact.

“You’re sly,” you mutter feeling the prick of heat within your cheeks already.

Jaehyun looms large over you, boyish scent as enticing as it always is, clean and soapy and him. He doesn’t hesitate to press a bloom of a kiss right over your dusty pink cheek, headed right to his favorite spot like he’s been waiting to all night. He takes the pizza box with one hand to hold behind his back, and in a flash, the other is tangled in the strands of your ponytail, tugging your face upwards so he can get a clear view of your rosy complexion, all the shyness he’s inspired.

You’re very much still in public, yet he doesn’t seem to care, because he dives right to the underside of your jaw, a kiss that is less sweet and more fiery. Then his teeth graze the side of your neck, and suddenly you’re glad he took the pizza from you because you need the free hands to grasp his shoulders when he pushes you against the brick of his building, nose nudging the neckline of your dress aside so he can kiss the hollow of your throat, fingers tugging at your hair as you gasp.

His hand settles against the small of your back, and you barely hear him over the rush of your heartbeat in your ears, “I'm sly but you like me. Let’s go.”

—

You wake up in the same position you always do — a canyon of space opened between you due to your aversion to cuddling, just your pinky tucked into his palm. It's cute and you could really do this every morning.

After you clean up and he tends to both your wrapped tattoos, he tosses you your dress from the floor, where it’d landed in his hurry to take it off. You grimace, knowing you’re about be doing a very obvious walk of shame _(there really needs to be a word other than shame, because there’s nothing shameful about it)_ through the streets of Manhattan.

There’s no hiding it from Doyoung though, who’s working on his organic chem homework at their kitchen counter while simultaneously making eggs. He doesn’t mention it outright but raises a knowing eyebrow when he sees you exiting the room together, “You two owe me coffee. I heard you… giggling last night.”

Jaehyun makes a face like _whatever do you mean_ , and takes up the naive stance, “It’s just giggling, Do, don’t you always use headphones to sleep.”

“I hope you understand giggling doesn’t mean _giggling_ here,” Doyounng grumbles, not horrifically mad but wanting his payback anyways. “Iced chai with two sugars, thank you!”

“That’s on you,” you pass the responsibility off to the actual resident of this place, patting Jaehyun on the chest. “I have class at with the Troupe of American Ballet at twelve. Sorry, Ding Dong!”

Doyoung only laughs behind his textbook as Jaehyun pouts, not wanting to be burdened with the responsibility of going out for his roommate’s very expensive drink. But your best friend literally trips over himself in his haste to put his shoes on and follow you out the door in his sweatpants when you waste no time in getting to the day. Once you’ve stepped off the train at the station closest to the performing arts center, your phone starts lighting up with a call. When you see that it’s Joy on the other end, deep-seated dread overtakes you. _How the heck am I supposed to explain this one away. Hope that they all got drunk enough to think I was already asleep by the time they got home and left at the crack of dawn?_

Joy’s voice is a bit tinny on the other end, like she’s groggy or having trouble speaking right into the phone without waking someone up, “Hey.”

“What’s up?”

“Me first… are you at the AirBnb?”

“Uh……” You weren’t expecting her to have the same question as you, so you have to think fast, for a kind of lie that is believable, “I’m out getting smoothies? Why?”

“Never mind.”

“I was actually going to ask you if you could get me my stuff before class… because you know… I accidentally came too far uptown to go to this one specialty store.” Jaehyun’s forehead pinches at the fact you’re not telling your other best friend the truth. You hold up a finger to silence him before he can make himself known on the call. If she hears you’re still with him, she’s definitely going to figure out your friendship involves extracurriculars you never mentioned.

“Fine,” she caves. “Only if you bring me one.”

“Thank you! Love ya, two!”

You end the call, satisfied that you’ll be able to get away with this yet again. Or maybe not, because Jaehyun is still staring at you, a bit perplexed.

“Soooooo,” he ventures, in a careful manner that does not predicate what he’s about to bring up. “You don’t tell Joy that we, like, sleep together?”

“She already thinks we’re dating, do you blame me?”

She has badgered you endlessly about the fact that you were basically in a realationship, thinking the physical line was all that you needed to cross to make it official. If she ever knew that you’d already done so, you’d open up yourself up to a host of endless questions about why you didn’t just go for it, questions you didn’t have the answers to. You’re intrigued as to what he tells his Columbia friends about you when you’re not there. It’ll be embarrassing if you’re somehow not on the same page, giving up too much or assuming things you shouldn’t have been.

Jaehyun groans lowly while shaking his head, “No… I was intending on keeping it from Doyoung as long as possible but I know he wasn’t wearing those fucking headphones. Christ."

Letting out a sigh of relief that neither of you had misread the situation, you look back down to your phone to text Joy one last thing about where to meet you, before a sight on your screen bursts into your vision. 

“Oh, holy shit.”

“Profanity alert!” Jaehyun chirps, knowing the cursing means something big. “What’s up?”

You blink hard, trying to make sure you’re not hallucinating what you see on the map. The little TT icon for Thing Two is set in a location that’s decidedly not where all of the other girls’ icons are. You marvel out loud more to convince yourself that it’s real than explaining to the boy who’d asked, “I just looked at her location to see if it would take her a while to get back, and she’s real close to the Airbnb the guys are staying in.” In fact, with the margin of error that comes from tracking locations, and how old your phone is, you'd say that she's exactly at that building. Three guesses as to why she's there.

“And that matters… because?” Jaehyun asks, confused.

_Joy doesn’t blab my business, and I shouldn’t blab hers, not even to Jaehyun. I think that would be extraordinarily bad karma. So I'll keep it to myself that I'm pretty sure she ended up hooking up with Ten last night, finallyyyyyy. I'm so going to make fun of her the first chance that I get._

You fix him with a bright, carefree expression instead, “Never mind! Looks like we have time to kill!”

“Well, we can just sit here for a bit.” He gestures to a nice bench in front of a row of apartment buildings that overlook the entrance to the park, then adds on very knowingly, “then we can get you your _smoothies._ ” You shove him away from you at the audacity he has to comment on that, and wince a little when the fabric of his coat involuntarily brushes against the healing skin of your hand. He notices and asks, “By the way, how’s it feeling?”

“No pain…” you answer, fingers ghosting over the spots that are just roaring to be scratched. “Itchy, though. But I have the brochure, so I should be good. How’s yours?”

He shrugs, hand rubbing at his chest over his coat. “I can’t even feel it.”

“I cAnT eVEn FeEl it. Seriously, when did you get like this?” you mock him with a grin. The soft, quiet boy you knew in high school would _not_ be the kind of person to go bragging about getting tattoos, not feeling pain, blah, blah, and he knows it. “And don’t say you’re not different because I haven’t seen you wear a vest since last semester and now you have multiple! _multiple!_ tattoos.”

You don’t mind the change, you just wish it didn’t feel like time was passing you by without a single ounce of consideration. Like one day he’d grow up and decide that you weren’t worth it anymore.

“I’m still wearing glasses,” he reminds you, fixing the frames on his nose as if to make his point. Then, he leans his head into yours so your temples are brushing and he murmurs, “Plus, I’d know you’d still be my friend no matter what I was like so, take that.”

_I don’t know why I ever really worry._

“Excuse me, are you here for the apartment tour?”

Both of you glance up to see a disheveled man running up the block, calling after you. Unzipped briefcase fluttering in the wind, tie flying behind his neck like he’s a cartoon character in a chase, one arm of his own spectacles no longer looped behind his ear, he looks totally frazzled and overwhelmed.

“I’m sorry, w-what?” Jaehyun stutters.

“It’s me that’s sorry, the appointment was supposed to start at eleven, but the A line stopped running.” He composes himself into propriety and holds out a hand for Jaehyun to shake, “I’m Wonwoo Jeon, your realtor, nice to meet you.”

_A realtor? Huh?_

Through his confusion, Jaehyun manages a polite, “Hello.”

“Come, come, let’s go in,” Wonwoo gathers you up like you’re his own children instead of a pair of teens not that much younger than him.

He shuffles you into the lobby of the upscale apartment building, with chandeliers and a small fountain in the foyer. When he shoves you into the elevator, you’re about to start thinking you’re getting kidnapped, but he pulls out a set of keys from his suit pocket and fumbles through the labeled ones.

“Sir, I think you have the wrong—,” you try.

But Wonwoo isn’t listening, he’s talking with Jaehyun again, “Now, where did you say you and your wife were moving from again?”

 _Hold up. This man thinks I’m Jaehyun’s what, exactly?_ You expect a correction, for Jaehyun to get you out of there with the affable ease he’s good at using with adults. You’re not at all prepared for him to shoot you a cute smile across the space of the elevator and dreamily answer, “A small suburb out of Newark, we’ve always wanted to settle in the city.”

Wonwoo gives you both a knowing nod, like you’re the latest in a long list of couples who he’s serviced for the exact same thing. He walks ahead of you to an apartment that’s halfway down the hall, and you take the opportunity to snatch your friend’s elbow and hiss at him, “Jae!”

“Just go with it!” he hisses back.

That’s how you find yourself stepping into a fancy New York apartment, jaw hanging loose as you take in the spacious interiors. It’s so different from where either of you grew up in - with marbling in the kitchen, an expansive bay window with a seat, and dark cherry hardwood floors. You’ve never thought about what a future home of yours might look like, too preoccupied with dorm rooms and student housing and the knowledge you’d probably live in a closet during your first year in a company. But this might be it.

“We’ve recently refurbished this whole block of apartments, so each one has a vaulted ceiling and LED lights,” Wonwoo draws your attention to the lofty heights of the room, making the space feel so much bigger, and all the high-class amenities you’ve never had, “a huge kitchen space with updated appliances, two bedrooms, washer-dryer, all of that great stuff.It’s a five minute walk to the performing arts complex, there’s all sorts of restaurants around here, great nightlife. The perfect intersection of the Manhattan young folks love and a quieter place a couple like you can look to plan a future in.”

You can’t help but run right over to where that beautiful bay window is, and gosh. How have you never realized you wanted exactly this? This is perfect, the perfect spot where you could sit on your own and sew your pointe shoes, look down to the street and people watch, peer off into the distance and see the lake in the middle of the park. You might have to ask Joy if you could break down a wall back home so you can put one of these window seats in.

“Oh my gosh,” you breathe. “That view.”

Wonwoo chuckles behind you, “I do have to say the price point is probably driven up solely by that view of Central Park. Speaking of, do you mind telling me what kind of jobs you have, so that I can get an idea of a budget we’re going for?”

“I play piano professionally for an orchestra, and my wife is a ballerina,” Jaehyun answers. He's again playing along like you’re an actual couple, looking for a place to settle permanently after achieving your ultimate career goals, not just a pair of friends who had accidentally been brought into a place you can’t afford. You peer over your shoulder to shoot Jaehyun a look telling him he should shut up, and he just shrugs, sheepish, crooked smile on his face.

However, Wonwoo buys it.

He rummages through his papers, pulls one out with a flourish and announces, “Okay, well you seem quite financially secure,” _hilarious, that he’d bought it so easily,_ “this apartment will definitely be within your price range, then. It’s nine hundred thousand to purchase, ten percent as a down payment, and your starting monthly mortgage would be roughly two thousand a month.”

Jaehyun splutters into a cough, hacking up a lung in his misguided effort to take a breath, just as you instinctively lower yourself onto the cushion of the bay seat, taken aback by that price point. You stand up right after, knowing that your butt couldn’t rest on a cushion that probably cost ten thousand dollars in the grand scheme of things. Of course, you were under no delusions that you could afford the apartment right now, yet you figured that maybe at some point you could… But no. And it doesn’t even seem like they do rentals here, you couldn’t even have a taste of luxury.

“I’ll give you some time to look around by yourselves.”

Wonwoo smoothly takes an exit out of the place while Jaehyun slumps against the expensive as heck pillow, trying to calm his lungs down back into actual functioning organs. He wheezes for a second, then laughs in disbelief, “I thought it would be fun to see what kind of place I might be able to get when I’m not on a student salary, but this place is crazy.”

“This is definitely a dream apartment,” you sigh wistfully, taking in the one last perfect gaze out into the park. Neither of you could afford this. When you catch him staring at you instead of the scenery, a funny look on his face, you cringe in embarrassment that you got caught in your fantasy, “Shut up, I’m not realistic always.”

“Hello, Mr. Jeon?” A voice rings out into the living room. “Weren’t we supposed to meet you on the street?”

You and Jaehyun both look over and Wonwoo’s head pops in from the bedroom he disappeared into. You all see an actual couple there in the doorway, the wife clearly pregnant, the husband holding another child on his hip. You stare at each other blankly for a second before Wonwoo pushes his glasses away and squints at the pair.

He mutters, “Wait, if you’re my eleven o’clock, then who are you—,”

“Gotta run, sorry!”

Before Wonwoo can turn your way, Jaehyun grabs your hand and you’re peeling out of the place in a symphony of scorched rubber, your nice heels clattering along the hardwood as you try to keep up with your friend’s breakneck pace. You nearly knock the couple over as you go out of the same entrance they tried to come in from.

You remember the doors will open right to the doorman who surely knows you’re actually trespassers, so you yank your hold and pull him into the emergency stairwell, not taking a moment to catch your breath in between the landings on the ten flights of stairs, bursting out the emergency exit into the middle of the occupied street. You keep running even further up the block so they can’t look out that same window you were just at and spot you, report you for breaking and entering.

“That was one of the most insane things we’ve ever done,” you pant, hands on your knees as you try to get feeling back into your feet. “That felt illegal.”

“I guess when you’re badass like me these things just happen,” he brags, in a completely over the top way that has you both giggling after you punch him on the arm.  
  


> [11:30 am] **thing two:** I’m fifteen away, meet me at 66th and 9th

You sigh at the message, resigned to return back to student life, and you give a sad wave back to the building, “Farewell dream apartment! See you never!” You lean your forehead right into his arm, like you’re a petulant child being separated from a candy store and grumble, “I’m sorry I couldn’t stay for longer, but I’ll see you so soon, okay?”

“Can’t wait for Nutcracker, p.d,” Jaehyun murmur-laughs as he leans over to kiss you on the cheek, his signature goodbye. “You’re all I have to look forward to.”

_You too, I wish I could come back next weekend._

After you’ve picked up a tray of smoothies - not just for you and Joy, but enough to buy everyone’s silence if they dare to comment about your disappearance last night - you go to wait by the beautiful Kwon Performing Arts Centre. The company you’re taking class with today performs here, as does the other company you hope to join one day. Named after famous retired principal ballerina Boah Kwon, who’d danced with the New York Ballet Company for over thirty years, the magnificent building is _the_ pinnacle of the city for you. It's huge and opulent and filled with a little girl's heartfelt dream, so beyond the history here, there's the promise of the future. You’re so close to that dream that you can _(literally)_ smell it.

It’s not long after that Joy comes lumbering along under the weight of all your luggage. She doesn’t even crack a smile when you unload a cold purple drink into her hands with all of your cheerful enthusiasm, “One kale blueberry power punch as promised.”

“Ugh, here you go,” she groans, unloading your duffle and your dance bag into your hands.

“Someone’s peppy,” you tease.

“Likewise. You’re pooping sunshine,” she grumbles.

But she does not make any further comment about the very obvious outfit repeat you’re wearing, or the fact that there’s a noticeable tattoo on the hand that passed over the smoothie. You don’t think she even notices. Which cannot be said for you, because your eyes immediately hone into a splotch of violet that’s visible on the curve of her neck and a matching one that’s peeking out the top of her collarbone.

_Ding ding ding!_

“Sooooo,” you drawl as you put an arm around her and start walking towards the dancers’ entrance of the building. “Did Ten’s hotness translate to his prowess in bed?”

Joy almost trips over her sneaker. “What?”

The smile fades off your face when you realize she’s not smiling along. _Did she not know?_ You vaguely gesture to the side of your own neck, thanking all that is holy that Jaehyun was smart enough not to leave any visible markings last night. Then you quietly tell her, “Super obvious hickey you’re going to need to cover if you don’t change into my turtleneck Yumiko.”

Her hand flies to cover the marking as she curses, “Fuck!”

“Hmmmmmm?” you slyly prod, the subtle _is that a literal definition_ not lost on her.

She takes a long sip of her smoothie, shaking her head immediately in a denial, “It's not what you think.”

You know she denies it because she doesn’t want to tell your friends or get the rumor mill started again. You saw her location at the boys’ Airbnb, she and Ten can't have a normal conversation without blushing to the high heavens, and they’ve been will-they-won’t-theying all semester. None of that you made up. But again, you have to remind yourself that she has never, ever, ever spilled the beans on Jaehyun.

You at least owe her this, so you play along, “Right, right. Of course not.”

And for the rest of the semester she never brings it up. 

**tbc.**

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i was combing through what i have written and i think it's going to DRAG if i keep posting once a week so. here you go lmao. no saying exactly what my posting schedule is going to be or if i'll stay consistent w multiple chapters but im going to try.
> 
> thanks for reading!!!!!!!! xo


	9. allegro: brisk, lively motion

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “It is… uh…” Winwin fumbles, turning to catch your attention from where you’ve started the eyeliner again. “Thing one? Who’s this?”

You run the eyeliner ragged off your eye when out of nowhere Winwin drops it on you, “You know, I really think you should wear the hoe dress.”

“Winnie!” you exclaim in disgust. “This is a family dinner!”

“Exactly,” he nods at you as he lounges on your couch in sultry encouragement. “And don’t you think Taeho will slip a little extra money into your scholarship if you show up looking super hot?”

You throw your eyeshadow brush right in his face with disgust, “You’re annoying. I’m literally only going because Joy is supposed to bring a date AND SHE WON’T BRING TEN?” You shout the last part towards her closed door, the way it’s been since you came back from the studio an hour ago, but there’s no response.

“What’s up with thing two?” he asks lowly, nodding his head towards Joy’s room so he won’t get in trouble for being nosy.

“No clue,” you answer with a shrug. “I’ve been out all day but I haven’t checked to see if the lights are on.”

There’s a knock on the door of your place, which is strange because usually Taecyeon calls with your visitors before he lets them in.

“Or maybe she just left and this is her?” Winwin suggests. Maybe she just forgot her key, the doorman who knows she lives here wouldn’t stop her from coming inside, perks of moving to one of the fanciest off campus apartments, where there were no students around. He gets up and saunters over to the door, and throws it wide open without looking through the peephole.

“H-hello?” A male voice that is certainly not Joy’s wafts in through the opening. “I thought this was y/n’s apartment….”

“It is… uh…” Winwin fumbles, turning to catch your attention from where you’ve started the eyeliner again. “Thing one? Who’s this?”

You crane your neck around the fake Christmas tree branches to get a better look, but you can’t see. Frustrated, you grumble, “Move the heck out of the— hi,” all ill will dissipating out of your throat when you actually see who it is.

 _I was supposed to pick him up at the train station tomorrow but here he is like he’s Christmas come early._ Of course it’s Jaehyun, no one else exists to continually surprise you in this manner. He’s got his glasses off because he hates wearing them when it snows and he can’t see, backpack in his hands, bouncing nervously on the balls of his boots as he waits to be let in.

You can’t help the dreamy, moony tone, “You weren’t supposed to be here until tomorrow night.”

“Surprise?” he says in a soft voice, with an even softer smile, and you get up in a hurry before nosy Winnie can interrogate either of you.

He obediently follows you down the hall, and once you’ve closed the door behind you, you’re preparing to be swept up in a hug. Instead, you get him flopping back on your bed, eyes closed in heavy fatigue.There’s snow everywhere, in his eyelashes and his dark hair, so much of it it’s slow to melt, and he looks so cute like this, your cute little snow angel. But you do see his teeth chattering, and he immediately rolls over so he’s snuggled in your quilt with his jacket still on.

You lean over to sweep the hair out of his eyes and murmur, “You must be so cold. Where’s your hat and gloves?”

“I don’t know,” he mumbles, eyelids fluttering closed at the sensation. “In ‘m bag somewhere.”

“Are you okay, Jae?” you whisper as you untie his shoelaces for him, nose wrinkling fondly when you see his rubber duck socks. 

He goes straight onto your pillow after you lift his head to place it underneath, he can barely get the syllables out, “Tired. Really fucking tired.” _I’ve never seen him like this, not sad, but bone-tired weary._

“I have a dinner I have to go to, but you should rest. I’ll see you as soon as I’m done, okay?”

You don’t even know if he hears because he rolls over into your silk pillowcase and breathes out in contentment, “Mmmmm, smells just like you, prima donna.” And he’s asleep only minutes later, light snores giving you the clue that he’s taken a spin into dreamworld.

You’re concerned about him to the point that you stay in the room to get dressed, only way you can make sure his chest is still visibly moving under your blankets. Somehow scared the cold is going to snatch him away from you, you watch him even as you do your hair, pinning it up with his pearl pin in the way he likes. You’re reluctant to leave but you know that it would look bad on Joy if you RSVPd and didn’t show up. So you leave the spare key right by his book bag and wait until the last possible minute before exiting the room, gently closing the door behind you in order to not wake him up.

You nearly jolt out of your high heels when Winwin’s prying tone barrels right into your ear after all that expanse of quietness, “Who is _that_?”

Your friend uses his very best puppy dog eyes, wanting all the sordid details of who this mystery man is, why you so easily brought him into your room, surely to gossip with Ten and Taeyong. They’re even further in the dark than your group of girlfriends, you don’t think you’ve brought up Jaehyun once around them, and you’ve spent _a lot_ of time together over the past almost year and a half. You can’t keep it that way, but you’ll try.

Ignoring his question to the best of your ability, you button up your coat with a request, “Can you please tell him I’m at dinner when he gets up? And make sure he makes it to Kiss My Nuts tonight and also stays warm?” You’ll leave it on Jaehyun to explain who he is, wanting them to hear from his mouth instead of yours.

“Only if you tell me who he is,” Winwin repeats, defiant in getting his way before he bows to yours.

“He’s a person I know from high school. Satisfied?” you grumble, giving him the barest of bare truths and no room to argue. “Now do what I say. And text me if Joy comes out of her room.”

You’ve already left several voicemails, even more actual messages, and she hasn’t responded to any of them. You can only hope she’s at the steakhouse already and you don’t have to answer to her - nice but admittedly still very scary -parents as to where she is. 

When you arrive, the host informs you that the Lees are already present in the back dining room, but you take a moment to yourself to gather your nerves. You feel like you’re going to sweat yourself right out of your marshmallow puffer coat so you shrug it off even though you’ll definitely freeze to death in this slinky silver dress you have on.

“You should keep the coat on, freshie.”

You turn to see Taeyong strolling in through the double doors of the restaurant. It’s irritating how good he looks — hand in his pocket, silver dress shirt irritatingly matching your dress, as does his hair, which has been gelled back with precision, curls swooped all over his forehead and sideburns in an irritating, artful arrangement of beauty. He’s a statue of a Greek god plucked right from the museums of old that are a hallmark of London.

You dip you head in a curt nod of acknowledgment. “Oldie. They have to wheel you in?”

The corner of his lip turns up in a devilish grin and he banters back, “This semester has not dulled your wit one bit. I’m serious, about the coat.”

You peer down at the expanse of skin that’s now been exposed and raise an intrigued eyebrow, “What, you’d get too distracted?”

“No,” Taeyong denies, after he takes his time to let his eyes drip all over your chest and bare shoulders, “but my parents would have things to say about it.” He halts for a second, eyeing the landmass of puffy nonsense in your hands, and makes a decision to take off his coat instead, “Here.”

It’s a trite moment, Taeyong reaching around your torso so he can lower his expensive jacket onto your shoulders, dousing you with the scent of his Dior cologne. You make sure to roll your eyes when he can see.

“I’m surprised you’re even here… aren’t you abroad this whole year?” you ask, knowing Joy had been so pleased at the prospect of being left at Princeton on her own for a full year with no consequence. There’s nothing he could do over the weekly video calls that she was afraid of.

“Ah, it’s the Nutcracker though, I had to come back and see who’s ruining my parts. Snow pas included.” He’s a bit quieter with the retort this time, not as braggadocious. Like something is off with him that you can’t pinpoint, that he had another reason to return beyond just ensuring you and Winwin didn’t flub in the Snow Scene pas de deux.

But while you’re friends, sort of, kind of, you certainly can’t ask after specifics, settling on, “You’re annoying,” instead.

He only chuckles at that, not really attempting at making this into an argument. The recent trend of your friendship had moved away from straight hostility into this strange kind of back and forth, with an overtone you didn’t like, but didn’t hate. He allows you to take the lead in heading towards the back room, which is odd because usually he’d stride in like he owned the place.

When you see Taeho and Nara again, first time since they came to see the apartment during parents’ weekend, you’re happy to find they don’t inspire that much anxiety anymore. You don’t see them as a CEO and his wife nor the benefactors of your scholarship, they’re just your roommate’s parents, who sat with you on the couch and cheered for the homecoming game on TV because you couldn’t get tickets.

You wave with enthusiasm, which they match. Their own son is the one who takes a way more subdued effort in greeting his parents, “Mama, Papa. Hello.”

Taeho looks over at his son with cool interest, but it’s not really in his personality to be overwhelmed with surprise at Taeyong showing up, probably because he was the one who had the jet chartered. After they nod at each other once, Taeho takes up a more jovial tone with you, gesturing so that you can sit right across from him, “Ms. Y/l/n, so glad you were able to make family dinner again!”

You have to be polite and funny and gracious, you go with a joke that’s always entertained the CEO, “I hope you don’t think I’m taking too much advantage of you.” You make the same quip every time they drop off groceries or wine or something fun at the apartment. He laughs every time like he is now, to the point he has to dab at his eyes with his pocket square. _It hadn’t been that funny, but I guess I’m flattered._

“Never,” he hums in amusement, then you see a head of curly black hair peek up from under the table. Taeho peers at the girl with full affection and introduces her to you, “This is Taera, the baby.”

The youngest Lee sibling had been MIA in all the times that they visited, according to Joy, because of her exceedingly shy nature. But as soon as she sees Taeyong, she bolts, running over to hug him right away. He transforms in an instant, soft laughs emanating from him in a silver melody, face alight like you’ve never seen before.

He shifts her slightly so you can see her, the cute gold dress and the face that looks just like his. You give her a tiny wave, “Hello. I love the dress you’re wearing.” She doesn’t say anything to you in return, her little hands just cling to the fabric of Taeyong’s silk pants, a gesture that reminds you completely of Jisung. You might never have kids of your own, but you’re going to have all these wonderful nieces and nephews to spoil, you just know that.

Nara explains away the absence of her second youngest, “Chaeyeon has her own Nutcracker rehearsal tonight that she couldn’t miss, but you’ll get to see her over the holidays.”Chaeyeon was always loads of fun to be around, but you know you’ll get to see her in a few weeks. The plan that Joy enforced this year was that she’d allow you to do Christmas with Jaehyun like you wanted, but she got you for the big New Year’s Party her family’s estate threw. _I get the best of both worlds that way._

“Of course,” you agree affably, “I can’t wait to see the estate in the winter for the first time!”

“Speaking of Sooyoung, did you two not come together?” At that next question from Taeho, you’re not exactly sure what to say. You know you’re not responsible for his daughter’s actions, but his curious and slightly disappointed tone has you primed to look for a defense.

“Hello, sorry.”

At the interruption, you glance over to see if it’s your roommate that’s suddenly appeared. Instead, you get a very severe-faced Krystal, waving the waiter off from trying to take her coat. She’s still in her formal wear, coming right from one of her music theory PhD seminars, and her tone comes out in the usual stiff manner, “The trains were running behind. Hello everyone, hello y/n.”

It doesn’t go unnoticed that she’s there alone, but no one takes note of it beyond Taeho’s wayward comment, “This is certainly less of us than I expected, but oh well. More for us! Let us pray and then please order exactly what you want.”

You bow your head in polite acceptance as they recite their devotions, more intrigued with these developments than ever.

Once you have the menu propped up as a false barrier, you mutter to Taeyong beside you, “Where are Minho and Lisa?”

His stunning eyebrow — _is that glitter?_ — furrows. “Wait, you don’t know?”

“Know what?”

“The power couple of the family called it quits big time.”

“W-what?” You choke over air, muffling it with a very large gulp of water.

Once Taeyong is satisfied no one is listening after your gaffe, he mutters, “Yeah, when they moved into that new place they had a huge blowout. Ithink he wanted to propose and she wasn’t ready to do that.” The strange story doesn’t jive with your last memory of Minho you have, him showing up to surprise you during your trip to New York. If he’d been broken up with Krystal then, there would’ve been no reason for him to show up to hang out with the his ex's little sister. You doubt they’d be those kind of friendly exes. “She’s been taking it well, though. Not the kind of girl to be wrapped up in relationship drama for too long. I think. Not like she talks to me about anything, though.”

That is the divide in personalities you’ve managed to pick up between Krystal and Joy — the eldest, no-nonsense and pragmatic, with few words to say despite her loyalty. And the middle, open with everyone about everything. You’ve never thought about if Joy regretted not being closer to her older sister, but you feel bad about it now. No wonder you two had gotten so close right away, and that she favored Taeyong instead.

Remembering Taeho and Nara hadn’t looked surprised, you tilt your head subtly in their direction and ask, “They don’t know?”

Taeyong’s eyes close for a second like he hates the subject, then he shakes his head and denies, “Nope, she has kept it as locked away as she possibly can. Every time it’s _oh he’s busy,_ or _oh, there’s a meeting he just couldn’t miss,_ because of his place in the company. Couldn’t be me.” It’s an interesting comment for him to end on. Makes sense, though, considering all Joy’s told you about Taeyong's relationship with his father, his feelings of never being good enough and utter avoidance of the family business.

“Y/n,” Nara’s call interrupts your internal monologue, “I’ve been meaning to ask you something.”

After ordering the cheapest thing on the menu - a salad, to not feel bad - you give her permission to do so, “Go ahead.”

“It really was quite a series of fortunate events to allow our families’ paths to cross like this. What made you apply for the scholarship in the first place?”

You’ve always kept this story to yourself, though Joy knew, and by proxy, you assume Taeyong has the outline of it. His jaw clench confirms this, like he’s preparing to tell his mother off for asking something so personal. But you don’t find anything inherently uncomfortable about her asking, she’s framed it in quite a heartwarming way. It’s only because of her and her husband’s benevolence that you were able to find a friend for life in Joy, she can get at least a bare bones explanation.

“Oh, I thought that was going to be a hard question,” you open with a quip that has both of them chuckling. Then, you go for it, “We’re pretty solid lower middle class, simple as that. I wasn’t ready to settle for Rutgers and it wouldn’t be fair to ask my parents to go out of their comfort zone in paying.” _There is way, way more than that, but there’s no point in sharing when there’s nothing you can do to fix it for me_.

Nara fixes her husband with a proud smile, pleased that their scholarship had done so much visible good, for you and for Ten, too. They’ve probably helped so many like you, you really don’t know what you’d do without them.

“That is quite honorable of you,” Taeho says in a grandiose manner, bowing to you like you’re a noble subject making a sacrifice on behalf of your parents. If only he knew. “So, is it still going to be the three of you making trouble in the city and having Soojung watch over you?”

Taeyong is a junior, he’s going to be on the audition circuit all of next year. He’s sure to go pro right after graduation, because he’s already spent this whole semester dancing with an actual company, the British National Ballet in London. Most people don’t have that kind of resume. You and Joy still have two years to go, but you anticipate both of you auditioning as well. That’ll be a guaranteed double acceptance — you’ve only ever danced the same parts, if the company takes one of you, they have to take the other. That’s the goal.

“You know it is,” Taeyong answers when you’re still thinking about the dreamy future, that expensive apartment you could never afford. “New York Ballet Company or I drop my dreams and join the business.”

You want to laugh at the ironic tone he’s used, but all three of the adults at the table shoot him such a severe look you get goosebumps yourself. You feel bad, knowing what you know about Taeyong, and not having any place here to speak up and defend him.

“Don’t get my hopes up, son,” Taeho bites out, which you realize later, sets the tone for the rest of the night.

That nervous edge he inspires continues through the three courses left of dinner, Taeho carrying most of the conversation with you and Krystal doing most of the heavy lifting in response, the only Lee boy sat in silence after that knock-back blow. You think that leaving the dinner will alleviate the mood, but getting in the car with Taeyong so Kibum can drive you out to the bars only makes it worse. It’s more than a bit weird to be in this enclosed space with him, even though you’ve spent hours and hours in the studio together in various states of undress, hands all over each other. None of that felt strange because it was part of your job. Now, there’s no reason for the corner of his pant leg to be touching your knee like that, nor the curious way his eye travels over the lily of your tattoo that you’d tried your best to conceal in his jacket sleeve during dinner.

You think he’s going to ask about the new ink, but settles on a less personal topic instead, “Is Joy really not coming out at all tonight?”

“I have no clue,” you answer honestly, wanting to know as much as he does. “I’m telling you, I haven’t seen much of her today.”

“It’s Nutcracker and it’s finals, and you know how she gets.” He looks out the window into the continuing snow for a second after that, then his voice comes out in a pitch barely audible over the blasting heat, “Can I…. ask you a favor?”

“It’ll be lorded over your head from now until eternity…” you begin to tease, then pick up on his dwindling demeanor, strains of off-ness returning. “Sure.”

He tugs at his earlobe, a glaring distress signal. “You may have noticed that the on and off nature of my relationship with Lisa is currently... off.”

_Am I allowed to curse now? What the hell, that is not where I thought this was going to go._

Obviously you noticed that Lisa wasn’t present tonight, nor had she really ever come to any of the Lee family dinners over the past three semesters you knew them. But you’d seen them together on campus from time to time, when she’d fly in for company banquets or whatever events he had, and figured her schedule as a model kept her too busy. You’ve seen the Instagram pictures, you can’t imagine she has much time for college parties amongst all the traveling she does. You didn’t realize her absence meant that they broke up.

“Okay, and?”

“We’ve been together since we were like fifteen and unfortunately this happens a lot,” Taeyong explains, in a stilted manner that belies the emotion he’s trying to tamp down. “This sounds arrogant, but every time girls get wind that I’m single again, it becomes a madhouse. Joy usually… she usually hangs around so that people don’t try anything.”

Taeyong is as close to a celebrity on campus as you can get, but you’re a bit confused by what he means. “How will they know, though? It’s not like you make a public announcement every time it happens, right?”

With a groan that manifests from the throaty depth of his despair, he reaches into his pocket to pull out his phone, flip through a few apps, and shove it into your hand. The screen is open to a very bombarding image of Lisa on a yacht, sitting on the lap of a chiseled man who can only be her fellow model, his boxy smile on display as she kisses his cheek. The raw seams of the image clue you into the fact that this is not part of her job, it’s a candid picture she decided to upload. Winwin's joke about yachts being a place for the verb that started with f and rhymed with ducking comes to mind.

Taeyong looks upset, and you feel upset, and you have no idea why. You try to keep the tone lighthearted and sarcastic when you theorize, “So you want me to ward off the lusty ballerinas who you _don’t_ want to sleep with? As a sisterly thing to do?” _I’d assume you’d take first pick of the lot and go for it, in an effort to get over the girl who’s obviously over you already._

“Well I certainly don’t want to pretend date you.” _Oof, never mind. You’re not trying to get over her. At least not now._

“Why’d you break up?” You can’t help but ask. When his gaze hardens, not at you but at the macabre of it all, you make up a fast excuse, “You know… proper cover story and all that, if I’m really going to commit. I’m a good actress. All top ballerinas are.”

Taeyong’s pink lip quirks into the minuscule strains of a smile. But that disappears when he sighs, so, so hurt in a way you never thought a privileged him would ever be able to do, “Talked about getting married after I graduate. Didn’t go well. Doesn’t seem to want to get married or have kids based on her reaction.”

 _Oh, no, that is so awful._ You obviously understand where she’s coming from considering your own personal beliefs. But Taeyong is obviously devoted to her. And frankly, despite your problems with him, wouldn’t be a bad husband to the right person. That kind of outright rejection is unbelievably harsh for a five year relationship.

As the car rolls to a stop outside of the bar hosting Kiss My Nuts, you do your best thinking on how you’re going to play this. There’s ignorance, there’s denial, there’s slander, but there’s a cool and suave nuance that you think he might prefer.

When you’re huddled under the small awning, waiting for the bouncer to open the door, you take the plunge, hoping he’ll appreciate your effort. With a subtle raise of your eyebrow, you adopt your slyest tone and ask innocently, “Okay, so what I heard is you thought your busy schedules just wouldn’t work out for the time being. Am I understanding that correctly?”

Taeyong smiles —a soft, genuine crescent that outshines the moon for only a second — before he composes himself and offers, “Drinks are on me for all of tonight. Whatever you want, for whoever you want. Run me up.”

_Wow, he drives a good bargain. Maybe he’s destined to be a businessman after all._

The bouncer doesn’t ask to see your IDs, because the ballet program seniors contracted the bar to only card if a drink was ordered. This tradition came about when this particular establishment started putting an eight foot Nutcracker out after Halloween, and seventeen out of the twenty graduating seniors that year had gotten contracts after the shows, a record. The bar had kept putting it out and now it’s turned into this whole fracas, each company member has to kiss its feet, otherwise it’s a guarantee that things will go poorly during the show. You’re not a superstitious person by nature, but Winwin is — when you bend to kiss the wood, you’re doing it on his behalf, so he doesn’t drop you on your head during the press lift at the climax of the Snow Scene.

Taeyong is waiting for you in the hallway. You can already hear the buzz that’s arisen at the simple glimpse of him, and he groans, “Ugh, I have a bad feeling about this.”

You keep his blazer on in hopes it will keep up the story you’re trying to sell. Then, finding yourself in the position of the model girlfriend, you go into the bar together, not touching, but close enough to give off an aura of curious mystery. Everyone is staring and whispering — about you — a sensation you haven’t experienced since high school. It is then you realize that people are dressed in their standard winter going out clothes, jeans and boots and cozy, cutout sweaters, and here you both are in your (matching!) finery, looking like you just stepped out of a fashion week.

“Give me one second though?” you mutter, standing on your tiptoes in your high heels to search through the crowd. “Gotta check for Winnie.” _And make sure he did exactly what I said before leaving the house, I haven’t forgotten that._

Taeyong nods, understanding. “I’ll be at the bar.”

You gotta make this fast, if he’s alone too long someone will surely pounce. Luckily for you, Winwin is tall and Winwin is loud. In a second, your ears pick up him screaming to the latest sultry Kai track all alone in the corner, paying homage to his favorite artist in his Gucci print turtleneck, beer already in hand.

He sees you pushing through the crowd and he yells at you, “You went with hoe dress, yes queen!”

Winwin’s over the top with you in private, but he’s sophisticated to the point of icy coolness in real life that people are often afraid of him. The fact he’s being so loud and so extra in public means….

“Are you drunk already?”

“Only a little. Me and the newb pregamed harddddd….” he slurs, a bit of his drink washing over the edge of his cup when he stumbles. “You’re out of ginger ale, by the way.”

“You and the newb…” you mutter to yourself, not knowing that nickname. Which escalates right into a shocked exclamation when you see what you see, “Winnie!”

Because, oh, Winwin did exactly what you asked.

Jaehyun is here at the bar, which is great. But he has a shot of Jack and a beer in one hand at the same time, his face is red in the way that it only gets when he’s drunk or flustered, probably both. And there was no effort made in keeping him warm, because he’s only in a plain white tee and his jeans, tattoos on display, black hair a stunning mess all over his head.

His other arm is around Mijoo.

“What!” Winwin whines, thinking he’s in trouble. “He woke up and just started taking shots of Jack with me!” You whirl around to see if your friend is kidding, because Jaehyun only drinks Jack when something’s wrong, but Winwin is too entranced with the scene to really be paying attention, “And it was like the fucking animal planet when I walked in with him, sheesh.”

It’s not just Mijoo at the couch with Jaehyun, it’s Chungha with her fingers on his thigh, and Mijoo’s housemate Kei trying to scoot in so his hand will also be draped on her shoulder. One of Yooa’s senior friends is in the seat across from him, twirling her hair, a graduate student is on the prowl in the corner, and two other girls from the program you don’t know are clamoring for the last available seat.

“What magazine centerfold did you find this guy in?” Winwin wonders out loud. “I’m about five seconds away from making a betting pool for which one of them loses their dress first.”

Your fingers twitch with discomfort when you fiddle for your wallet and pull out a five dollar bill, pushing it into your friend’s hands with a casual drawl, “Do it. I have five on Mijoo, then.” You reach for Winnie’s chin, having to physically pull him away and turn his gaze to the bar, “Your boy’s here, by the way.”

Winwin sees Taeyong standing as aloof as possible with a glass of red wine in hand and immediately starts pushing to reunite with his buddy. It’s an amusing sight, to see these cocky men transform into gleeful little boys after a semester apart, hugging and laughing and jumping like they’ve just won a victory championship. Taeyong looks one iota less miserable when he’s with his best friend, they’re just missing Ten and the lot of them will be fully completed. But Winwin wants to get back to singing Kai for his life after taking maybe five thousand selfies. That means once again you’re left to swoop in and rescue an abandoned Taeyong.

“Miss me?” you ask sarcastically as you join him at the bar.

“We are….. so fucking overdressed. That ten minutes was excruciating, feels like I’m a new pair of Loubs at Saks,” he spits with derision, the same observation that you’d had.

He pushes a glass of champagne into your hands, and you quickly down it, then scoff at the high-end comparison, “You’re so pretentious. Must be genetic.”

“Do not call me that.”

“Make me.”

The stare down is interrupted by a very inviting voice preening in between you two, _Hey, Tae._ You look over to see Yooa with her beautiful long hair free flowing behind her, low cut bodysuit arranged in an enticing way as she leans in for a hug, “I didn’t realize you were back from London.”

His eyes meet yours from over her shoulder, panicked, _help me!_

“As I was saying,” you cut her off from doing anything else as soon as Taeyong politely steps away from the embrace, “if you can’t do thirty two fouettés and you’re a principal dancer, then you have no business being a principal dancer or cut that work out of your repertoire.”

He catches on and dives right into the fake conversation, like you’d been heatedly discussing ballet politics instead of banter-flirting before her arrival, “I know, Swan Lake is all about the fouettés. You could be the white swan of the century and no one would give a shit if you fell in those turns… is she gone?”

You peek past his shoulder to see Yooa stomping away, annoyed that you’d blocked her out like that to have a seemingly bland discussion about ballet. “Yup,” you affirm, feeling the flush of pride that your first instance of this had gone smoothly.

“You’re better at this than I thought,” he hums lightly, signaling to the bartender for another round of drinks.

You’re about to ask him for a vodka top-up, get as belligerently drunk as possible and see where the night goes, when you hear a deep baritone that really makes it hard to do anything but listen in, “Hey, baby. I have a fake, lemme buy you the next round.”

You peek over your shoulder, and _of course._

“One more second?” you ask Taeyong, with just a hint of regret you have to do so. “Can you survive?”

“Maybe,” he huffs. But his eyelid twitches in a wink, the glitter against his brow positively stunning even in the dim lights, and he gives you the leave you need to do this.

This, is to turn back around and - _holy fuck_.

You knew it was Jaehyun there behind you, the voice was unmistakeable to a fault. You expected to turn around and find him hitting on one of the girls that he’d been surrounded with earlier, to have to go over there and tell him off — the eagle eyes here avert their gazes from upperclassmen buying but actually know how to spot the bootleg fake IDs.

But you’re bombarded instead with the image of Mijoo on his lap, his pretty, ruby red rose mouth on hers as they kiss.

You’re literally entranced by the action. Of course, you’ve slept with him countless times at this point, you’ve know the exact manner in which he kisses the inside of your knee as he waits for you to slip your shirt off. This should be nothing new to you, to see his lips moving in this manner. But to see Jaehyun kissing someone for the first time has you frozen in place, plainly staring at the couple, watching as her mouth opens under his and you get the lurid sights of his tongue unfurling straight into her mouth, his big hand cradling the back of her head with impossibly tender strength.

In a daze, you slip your arms out of Taeyong’s coat, leaving it on the barstool that’s closest to you, all the while not tearing your gaze off of them. Their dalliance gets more heated, her hands all over his chest, over the exact spot his lily tattoo is, his fingers tugging at her hair like he does with _you—_

“Hi.”

_Wait, what? Did that come from me?_

You’ve somehow walked all the way over to the couch they’re sat upon. When you catch your reflection in the mirror hung above it, you’re surprised you only have a subtle smirk visible on your face, nothing else.

It’s a strange kind of slow motion movie you’re a patron at - watching them break apart from making out with full reluctance transforms into the moment Jaehyun peers up through his long eyelashes. His lovebitten lips part in surprise when he sees you there all done up, the liquid argent dripped all over your torso in the form of the dress you almost decided not to wear.

 _Oh my god,_ Mijoo mouths right at you so he can’t see, sticking her tongue out like she’s panting, then she shoots him a coquettish glance, “Y/n, this is…. wait, what’s your name again?”

He hasn’t stopped staring at you, fumbling for an answer to the question, “W-what?”

“Your name?” She presses herself further into him, “Jason? Jameson? Jaebum?”

_I’m not sure what I’m supposed to do in this situation. He’s too drunk and flustered to answer her. But if I answer instead, I’ll give it all away. I don’t even know why I’d walked over in the first place, why I’m even here in this incredibly private moment._

Or how you even have the capability of being this arrogantly nonchalant in your response, “No worries, I wasn’t trying to interrupt.” Or how you can take up such a charming tone, peeking back to where you came from, “Don’t bother ordering any of the expensive stuff on your own. Taeyong’s paying.” Taeyong is still by the bar, a new interloper by his side. You have to hurry this along to get back to him, finding it more comfortable to play the role of hookup buster in that instance than in this one.

“Taeyong’s here?!” Mijoo jumps where she’s still sitting in Jaehyun’s lap, straining to see. “He’s really back? Oh my god, I saw on Instagram he and that Celine model were done!”

“Yeah,” you answer, only one here privy to his personal life. “And my drinks are on him tonight. So yours are on me. Get whatever you want.”

There’s no other interpretation besides the one your subtle phrasing implied. Guys typically don’t go around buying drinks for girls they’re not at least remotely interested in. Because of that, you watch the tiniest corner of Jaehyun’s right eyebrow crinkle in disapproval as he glances between you and the handsome man at the bar. You swear he knows exactly who Taeyong is, but he’s also got an incredibly beautiful girl still in his lap, his hands are still on her waist. You can’t blame him for the nothing in his head right now.

With a saucy wave of your fingers, you turn on your Jimmy Choos - borrowed from Joy to match the outfit - and saunter back over to where Taeyong is sweating under his discomfort at how close this woman is getting.

“So, where were we?” You slip smoothly in between them, wearing a face that says you mean business, “Right, we were discussing the artistic interpretations of the Manon bedroom scene, and why it was a commentary on the feministic values of women in the seventeen hundreds.”

You catch the slight way Taeyong’s shoulders sag in relief. Yet his mouth doesn’t hesitate, transitioning into the false conversation with ease, “I think it was a great choice to have Manon be so free with her decision in being sexually liberated, and that really came through in the loose style of the choreography and lifts.”

The random woman, probably a guest of one of your classmates, festers as she stalks away, disappointed to lose her chance with the CEO’s son. “Thank you,” he sighs as he keeps the drinks coming, less of a reward and now a strange, nauseating reminder of the interaction you just had. Especially with what comes next, “So, a tattoo?”

“You can’t judge me,” you mutter. You’re compelled to cover it with your other hand, the small lily disappearing from sight as you gulp down a glug of discomfort. _I can’t really tell you the story, that the person that inadvertently got the matching version of this is sitting right behind us, that one of my good friends actually just had her hand over it. That’d be too much, right?_

“I’m not judging, just curious.”

“It was something spur of the moment—,”

Someone tugs at your arm before you can finish your sentence, pulling you away from the conversation. You’re no longer facing Taeyong, and are instead looking into the eyes of a very anxious Mijoo. You don’t know if you want to turn your head and figure out what Jaehyun is doing, so nstead, you peek your head back to where Taeyong is watching this with interest, and you say it loud enough both can hear, “I said you can order anything you want, right oldie?”

He recognizes the terms of your agreement, and nods his head in a polite concession, “Go ahead.”

Mijoo’s hand squeezes your arm again and her hair flutters all over the place when she shakes her head, “Not about that.” She glances surreptitiously off to the side and mouths, “Do you think I should fuck him?”

You dribble the full gulp of champagne you take right back into the glass, “I’m sorry…?”

“I’ve been trying to cut down on my one night stands this year but he’s the fucking hottest guy I’ve ever seen. He has all these tats and you know I’m into that…” _She means Jaehyun, you idiot, she’s talking about your own best friend. I never thought I’d be here. He’s not my boyfriend, not my family, what I do or say can’t control his actions. She likes him, he likes her, it’s practically my duty to make this happen._

She’s still going, rambling over the mystery piano guy she’s always wondered about without even knowing it’s him, “The more we make out the more I want to rip his clothes off, please tell me what I should do. I can’t find the girls anywhere.”

It’d usually be a big group discussion over wine and a bad movie, what guy the single and looking girls of your circle would want to hook up with that week. You’d heard only last weekend she’d decided to end things with Shownu, shuttering an impressive two month streak of monogamy. But this decision, again, about your own best friend, has fallen to only you.

You sigh, and recall a phrase that had once moved to inspire you, “Have a drink, sleep with a guy, none of it matters in the long term.”

“Great, I was going to do it anyways. Seeya!” Mijoo chirps, fluffing up her hair and pushing up her boobs in her crop top so they look great. She calls over her shoulder back at you, “Keep your fingers crossed that I can seal the deal!”

You give her a very lame fist pump of encouragement in return and turn back around before you see said sealing of the deal.

“This! is! not! working!” Taeyong hisses, having been caught up in how the girls are circling even closer, not put off by your presence beside him. “Maybe we should just leave. I’ll go call Kibum.”

You sigh with a careless wave of your fingers for him to do whatever he wants and you’ll go with. He leaves you alone, finishing the dregs of your last drink, relieved that he doesn’t expect you to continue this farce any longer.

“That’s the kind of guy you like?”

You stop mid sip to see who’s come up to the bar, maybe Winnie reappearing to try and get you to see the light on stanning Kai one more time. But you get Jaehyun instead, muscular arms holding him up as he slumps forward on the counter, glass of Jack in hand, question at the ready, “Who is he?” All of his focus is on Taeyong leaving the bar, laughing and flirting with the girls who try to stop him. _Does he really not recall all the pictures I’d showed him?_

“Joy’s brother?” You drop a reminder to jog his memory. “You don’t remember?”

Jaehyun blinks once, in a total daze, then his eyes go all over you as he murmurs in a whiplash of a subject change, “I didn’t know you owned a dress like this.”

You don’t, technically, own this dress. It was transplanted out of Joy’s closet long ago in an effort to spice yours up, because you really don’t wear things like this - slinky and sexual, with the draping front and open back, slits up the sides of the skirt, spun from this glittery, shimmery material that sparkles in an enchanting shower of stars every time you move. You’ve never seen Jaehyun stare at you this way, with the same kind of gaping hypnotization from before, like he could look and look and never be satisfied by simply doing that.

But his comment doesn’t feel like a compliment, you’re not sure what the heck it’s supposed to be, really. You only feel this sliver of discontent, forcing your retort out,“I didn’t know you were into ballerinas, otherwise I would’ve been setting you up for the past two years.”

“Fuck, she’s so hot,” he moans, glancing back over to where his companion is putting on her coat.

You don’t know why you had expected a denial instead of that, because the old Jaehyun would’ve said something like, _nah don’t worry, the only ballerina I like is you, prima donna_. But whoever this new person is only makes that lewd kind of noise, making your teeth grind together with blooming irritation. _If you wanted to get with my friends all you had to do was ask._

“She’s hot and wants to sleep with you, so do what you must with that. I’m going home,” you say dully. You think for a second, wanting to get one last dig in, so as you walk away you turn back, tap the spot on your chest where he has the tattoo of your favorite flower, and call tauntingly, “Hey! Flash a little tat, she’s into that, too.”

You stride right from the bar with purpose. Snagging your coat from coach check and escalating into full panic sprint when you’re outside and the snow is swirling in your eyes, you head right to the street corner tucked away out of sight from the bar entrance. You don’t want to see them leave together, you have no idea what you you’re going to do if you see your best friend and Mijoo in the throes of passion up as they head to her apartment together, like they couldn’t control themselves, like—,

“Kibum will be here in ten,” Taeyong announces as he strolls up to the spot where you’d halted, phone in hand. “So, you know, we don’t have to walk in the snow and stuff.”

You glance back at him, dumb expression on your face, then yelp, “No! If I leave with you people are going to think we’re sleeping together!”

He shakes his head in an easy denial. “No, they’re not.”

“How do you know that?” You push back, having been on the receiving end of lots of lurid gossip within your program.

“Because when I get Lisa back, and everyone sees me on her profile again, they won’t be thinking of you at all.”

_That, whew, that is a whole other can of worms I wasn’t expecting to get into._

You wait until you’re safely buckled in the backseat of the car for the ten minute drive back to your apartment, which is going to be five times as long if the traffic is any indication, and then you carefully tip toe your way through those worms, “Are you sure… you want to get back with her though? Admittedly, all I know about her is that she is a model and calls you challenging. Joy doesn’t talk about her at all.”

What you’re really trying to say is that you haven’t heard much, if anything, positive about her in the time you’ve known him. It’s so baffling to see him try to cling onto it. There must be more to her than meets the eye because you’re not seeing a damn thing.

“That’s because they’re not close,” he admits.

“And you’re cool with that?” you question, confused by his easy acceptance. “You seem like the kind of guy who would want his girlfriend to be best friends with his sisters.” Taeyong is close to Joy by default, heaps his love over Chaeyeon, babies Taera, and while he doesn’t seem particularly bonded with Krystal, they share the kind of aloof mutual respect that are hallmarks of their personalities.

He hesitates in answering, like he’s trying to pluck out the proper response, settling on, “I’m cool with it because that’s how she likes it.” He raises his eyebrows in a self deprecating manner and tacks on, “Plus I _am_ challenging. You think so, too.”

 _But the difference here is I’m not dating you_. “You’re really going to do it then?” you bluntly ask, trying to wrap your mind around why he wants so desperately to go back to her.

He avoids answering, instead pricking you with a sultry look, and a tone that is far worse, “Why? You interested?”

You scoff, peering outside as the snow-covered structure of your building looms into view, car crawling at a snail’s pace. Taeyong is cool, but you probably have negative interest in him if that’s even possible. He’s handsome, snarky, talented, smart, and if you just had a moment where you felt that…. cliché, but spark, maybe you’d consider it. Maybe.

It’s totally friendly between you two when you retort, “I’m making conversation so we don’t sit here in idiotic, awkward silence. Plus, I’m drunk. I talk when I’m drunk. ” You’re definitely tipsy at the very least, all those champagnes that you chugged went straight to your head.

“I like drunk y/n. Not that I don’t like sober y/n, but you’re fun. I had a lot of fun tonight.” It’s his own way of saying thank you for what you did for him tonight. You really hadn’t expected anything beyond the drinks, but this is cute, and very kind of him to say.

“It wasn’t totally horrible to spend time with you,” you joke in return. The mood gets serious out of nowhere, and you find yourself leaning in close as you take his jacket off to return, asking, “Can I be snooty for a second?”

“Go ahead.”

You can tell Taeyong puts up a good front, because that’s what you used to do all the time until you found the right person. He likes to live in the here and now, what makes him happy at the current moment, not wanting to stress about the overwhelming number of imminent events in his future. But it’s a distressing kind of coping mechanism, not any way to live without becoming extremely disappointed in the natural ebbs and flows of life.

“As much as you say nothing matters in the long term, things do matter. I think sometimes you pretend like they don’t.”

It’s a subtle reminder that he should guard himself for what’s to come instead of being willfully ignorant. That even though Lisa makes him happy now, there’s no guarantee she’s what’s right for him in the future. The slight hint of an understanding gleam appears in his eye, but he goes purposefully simple-minded, “What does that even mean?”

“You’re smart! Figure it out!” you shout with a wave over your shoulder as you turn to exit the car. “See you oldie!”

The sigh of someone flopped on the floor of the hallway of your apartment building is what catches your eye as you walk the snow-covered walkway up to the front door. You’re exhausted and don’t want to be kept up all night by people who can’t hold their alcohol, so you snitch as soon as you’re inside, “Taec, there’s another loser out of their room.”

“Again?” Taecyeon groans, knowing that the closer the holidays get, the more the non-student population of your building liked to get rowdy.

“I can see them from here—,”

“Prima donna!”

 _Is that…. Jaehyun that’s on the floor of my apartment’s hallway right now?_ Chin tucked into his chest where he’s tried to sit upright against the wall and slid all the way down, he’s currently waving his hand at you like he’s Jisung’s age and not twenty.

You make amends for your rude comments to your doorman, “I take all of that back, I’ve got it.”

“Oh yeah, I let him in like two minutes ago because I recognized him from earlier. My bad!” Taecyeon calls after you once he sees for himself that he knows who it is.

You rush down the hallway to where your best friend is now trying to stand up, careening all over the place in his intoxicated state of mind, no sense of balance. You have to dodge his stumbling form so he won’t knock both of you over. His hands wave through the air in attempt to both grab onto you and push your locked door open with all his strength, whining, “I waited for you, can you please open the door, the floor is cold.”

You barely manage to catch him before he topples over right into you, you’re crushed into the wall as you try to prop him up with one hand and unlock your door at the same time. You shuffle him in through your dark apartment by memory, thankful when you notice the slip of light now coming from the crack in the bottom of Joy’s door. You plop him right onto the bed where you swear you left him, and that does nothing to lessen your bewilderment at seeing him here.

“I’m confused,” you say as you watch him roll over on your bed. “I thought you were going home with Mijoo.”

Jaehyun rolls over a third time so his head ends up right on your pillow, and he drunkenly babbles all of it, “We were waiting for the uber. And then she was trying to put her hand in my pants and I? Ran, I guess?”

_Wait, he what?_

“You ran in the snow across campus to here,” you repeat, feeling like an idiot for not understanding what he’s saying.

He shrugs, eyes closed, forehead crinkling with the exertion it takes to remember what he’s just done, “I think so. I wouldn’t be this tired if I walked. I think.”

Now that you look at it, his cheeks are pink, sure, from the alcohol and the sex and because he’s just been out in the snowstorm with no coat yet again, and his chest is rising and falling like he had indeed, just run a marathon or something. The traffic was truly abhorrent, him beating you here would kind of fit if he ran. But you don’t get why.It makes no sense. You’d seen them kissing with your own eyes, and you weren’t that drunk then.

“Let me get this right.” Your own intoxicated mind is not doing you any favors with how cloudy it’s becoming, “You turned down the opportunity to sleep with the hottest girl in my program to run home to me?”

“She’s hot and a good kisser, sure. But I don’t want to fuck her,” he mumbles against your pillow, reaching to cocoon himself in the covers while pleading, “Can you turn the heat on, I’m really fucking cold.”

“Turn it on yourself,” you snap out of nowhere, startling yourself.

One of his eyes peeks out from under the cover, just as an ironically shy set of crude questions does too, “Are you mad? That I almost fucked her?”

You have no idea how to vocalize the worry that’s been building since he arrived in Jersey with no warning. The whole night has felt off from the start.

The anxiety builds as you catch a glimpse of your framed picture, then try and fail to explain away this harrowed feeling it inspires. Then, the words explode out of you in a rambling rant, “No, god! I just... I just… What would I have said to your mother if you got lost in a snowbank out there or got hit by car or something?! I don’t go running off alone when I visit you in the city! I’m responsible for you when you’re here, you’re not a Princeton student!”

His mother did gently warn both of you once that you had to watch out for each other during your visits. Neither of you knew the ins and outs of the other’s life that specifically. So it feels, in a way, like you’ve betrayed her? You let him run around a strange town with no coat and no directions to get back home and he hadn’t even bothered to say a word or send a text, nothing. What would’ve happened?

“You’re mad that I came home,” he concludes wrongly, pushing the quilt back off his sad, sad face, sensing he’s disappointed you in some way.

“No!” You burst out, in a tense fireball of unease.

Turning away to start taking off your jewelry and your shoes, you let your frustration out on them and not on him as you throw them into the corner, slipping on your pajamas over the dress and shimmying out of it as you try not to cry in your vexation. Just as you’re about to storm out and sleep on the couch, you feel a gentle palm come to rest on the side of your head, carefully twisting the pearl pin out of your hair. The clean signature scent of your best friend envelops you as he hugs you from behind.

“Don’t be mad, p.d,” he whisper slurs, ducking his head to dot a kiss right against your cheek. “Don’t be mad.”

“I don’t want to have sex tonight, okay? I’m tired,” you warn him.

 _I can’t really stomach the thought of being a second choice right now, like you’d expected sex with a girl and couldn’t care less who it was with._ He doesn’t really hold you like this unless you’re about to indulge in that type of sinful dalliance. The fact his fingertips are resting right against the waistband of your sleep pants is roaring his hidden intentions.

“Don’t wanna either,” he murmurs, bringing you even closer, pressing his cheek into yours and sighing deeply, like he’s able to soak you in in this manner. “Just wanna….. hold you. What’s the word for the tiny bowls on sticks?”

“A spoon?” you mutter, hating that you’re almost amused.

“That’s it,” he sighs in bliss, content to stand there and sway on his feet as he hugs you.“Just a spoon.”

You don’t want to cave right away, though you’re incredibly inclined to. You grab a towel out of your closet while he’s still koala holding you and somehow manage to duck and replace yourself in his arms with the mass of white, fluffy terrycloth. He pouts at the loss of sensation and you just order him, “Get ready for bed. I’m going to check on Joy.”

Tiptoeing out into the living room, you’re immediately blinded by the fact that the lights have somehow turned on despite you not doing so. Halting behind the corner, realizing there’s definitely an intruder inside, you do the only thing your addled mind can think of, call out, “Uhhhhh, hello?”

You nearly shriek in surprise when Ten materializes from being bent over your fridge, apologetic smile appearing when he sees you there all frazzled, “Hi, she’s really not feeling good.”

You glance over to Joy’s closed door, back to Ten, to the door, to Ten, to the visible, fresh hickey on his neck, to Ten, and you’re really too drunk for this right now. You rub your eye, smearing your eyeliner everywhere as you try to fragment the pieces together, “You’ve been in there the whole time? As in, the two of you, together?”

_Was that actually the only reason, they’ve been loved up together and she was too preoccupied to send me a text? Well, damn, okay. I’ll give her that._

"Well, I was over studying for the ballet theory final and then…. yeah…." Ten trails off. You can’t tell if it’s with pride, embarrassment, or something in between. That tiny blush on his face dissipates into concern when he next tells you, “But she threw up a few hours ago. And again maybe half an hour ago? I took your ginger ale, sorry.”

 _Oh no? She was throwing up? That’s the literal worst, getting sick before finals and Nutcracker is basically the metaphorical kiss of death._ “Does she need me?” you ask, prepared to ditch Jaehyun to go help your roommate however she needs.

“I don’t know,” Ten exhales with weight, like it’s a deeper question than just that. Then, he gets even more philosophical, “I don’t ever know what she wants, I think it’ll be good to just leave her alone.”

This is more than being unable to determine her medical status. You feel for him, you really do. It must be frustrating, their back and forth, the denials, the cat and mouse game, not ever really knowing what she wanted despite trying to get her to be with him. He deserves more than these errant hookups, over break in October, clearly now, every other time she's been loath to mention they were 'studying' together. Ten is kind and handsome and would be a good boyfriend. You’ll keep at it.

“Be safe out there, it’s really snowing,” you offer, and he gives you a curt head nod. When he’s about to go, you decide to act now and call after him, “Hey. I’ll talk to her in the morning.”

He knows from your tone you won’t be discussing just the vomiting. Ten smiles, subdued and appreciative, then leaves the apartment.

You can’t help but worry over Joy while you’re brushing your teeth and taking off your raccoon-eyed makeup in the shared apartment bathroom. You’ll have to stop at the store tomorrow to get ginger ale and meds and those crackers that somehow magically always cure stomachaches. You have one day to play magician and get her better before the show. You’re quiet once again as you attempt to slither back into the room without waking up a slumbering Jaehyun. He’s huddled under your blankets, shirt off, pants off, the garments neatly folded on your chair like he does while sober. After you turn out the light you take extra care to slide into the bed beside him, not wanting to be a disturbance.

He turns over on the pillow in an instant and slings an arm right over you, sighing right into your ear, “Ugh, took you long enough. I missed yooouuuuuuuu.”

He’s brushed his teeth, you can smell the toothpaste you leave out in your private bathroom, but you still pick up on that errant, spicy scent. You close your eyes and grumble, “How much Jack did you drink?”

“You knew I drank Jack?”

“Which means something’s wrong, so tell me,” you demand.

You’re not making this up whatsoever, and this has now set you incredibly on edge. It’s not like Jack is his drink of choice, what he orders regularly at a bar or whatever. That drink is a tequila sunrise with a splash of Sprite. He’s only ever drank Jack like that when he’s upset, after failing a test in a particularly awful manner, or getting into a fight with Mark, or most famously at his own mother’s wedding when he’d been holding in that spectacular truth about his father. 

“Nothing’s wrong,” he answers right away, more alert than he was five minutes ago.

You repeat yourself, “Tell me.”

Instead of his mouth moving, his bare body does instead, fingers clutching you to him so you’re spooning like he’d requested. You’re not cuddlers, you’re not soft or sappy or corny or any of it. If you sleep together, you do so, almost no nonsense in getting it over with, and end up separated in the bed afterwards, holding hands at a maximum. You don’t do this. That means it’s curious - though not altogether unpleasant - feeling the arc of your body matching up to his, bodies poured together in matching harmony, echoing a sentiment that they were meant to be this way.

You’re surrounded in a halo of warmth that drenches your malnourished heart fully. It’s all so wonderfully comforting despite every little thing that happened tonight, his arm over you, the brush of his fingers against yours, and his soft, sweet whisper after he’s kissed the curve of your ear, “Nothing’s wrong.”

**tbc.**

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> uhhhhhhhhhh. well. that happened.
> 
> thanks for reading XO


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